Scarecrow In The Rain
by ScarlettWine
Summary: Broken marriages run in the family. Mort gives in to empathy, allowing his cousin, recently cuckolded by her husband, to stay with him at his cabin. But will she be able to keep his sanity in check or will she find herself going mad right along with Mort?
1. Merciful Death

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

This is my first attempt at a **_Secret Window_** fan fiction. I urge you NOT to be gentle and only tell me what you really think. Especially let me know whether or not you think I should continue! Any unanswered questions or confusing bits will be resolved in later chapters, I promise.

By the way…

My fan fiction takes place a week before Shooter arrives at Mort Rainey's door.

The story will be rated PG-13 for now and may end up venturing to an R in later chapters.

The planned 'romance' in this story will definitely _not_ be between Mort and the female family member. Just so no one panics in thinking I'm heading down the incest trail. :)

* * *

**Chapter I: Merciful Death**

_…some nights I feel like dying, like that scarecrow in the rain_...-John Cougar Mellencamp

_Taking a shuddery breath, she began to ascend the ladder. She did her best to clear her mind as she climbed, focusing on counting each rung as she went._

_One…two…three…_

_She could not help thinking of him, and all that had gotten her to this point. But she did not want to dwell on the good times. For if she did, she knew she might just forget these hopeless thoughts, lower herself down from that ladder, and return to the house, begging him to stay and offering complete forgiveness._

_Nine…ten…eleven…_

_But why in hell's name should she forgive him? It was on that beautiful day, ten years ago, that he had taken her pale, delicate hands in his, gazed into her eyes, and promised his heart to her, and only to her, until the grim reaper came for his due. Well, her man's heart belonged to someone else. And damn it all, the bastard still drew breath._

_Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…_

_She had never sensed his unhappiness in their marriage, an unhappiness that led him to capture and revel in the affections of another. She never would have known how he deceived her, until she had been tipped off by a mutual acquaintance. Lord, she _must _have been blind, if a mere acquaintance could see what was going on while she remained in the dark. Perhaps this was why she was doing this. If she had earlier perceived what was happening, it wouldn't have gone so far. Maybe he wouldn't now find himself so in love with a shameless whore, that his wife of ten years became insignificant._

_Twenty-two…twenty-three…twenty-four…_

_Many a rough night had she suffered in her life, but none so rough as the night she discovered that the seeds of suspicion planted in her mind turned out to be factual. Only two days ago, and yet it had seemed like a multitude of time had passed from then to this moment. She had found them in the throes of passion; not in just any bed, but the bed she and her husband had shared, the bed in which they made blissful love in for the first time, and all the countless times after. So distracted were they, that they didn't even notice her come in, didn't even notice her watching them, her eyes dark with somber realization, then heating to scorching infernos. She began to scream._

_Thirty-one…thirty-two…thirty-three…_

_That had certainly gotten their attention. Thinking back on the incident, she doesn't remember what she was screaming exactly. Obscenities, probably. How-could-yous, maybe. Whatever it was, it had freaked out the couple in heat, that was for sure. "I'll never forget the look on your faces," she had told him, smugly, the next day after it had happened, when they both had reached the breaking point and had to bring themselves to seriously discuss the consequences of his affair. "I'll never forget the look on YOUR face," was all Henry could say._

_Thirty-five…thirty-six…thirty-seven…_

_It was then that he told her he was in love. With the strumpet. "The heart wants what the heart wants." She hadn't cried a single tear over him until that moment. It was so simplistic an explanation. All the caustic wit and sarcasm so integral to her personality suddenly vanished, and the only words her mouth had left to speak were, "And what if my heart wants you?" He didn't have an answer to that, predictably. He wasn't going to let her down all that gently. As she stood there before him, beginning to sob, covering her face in shame, he slipped off his wedding band, with some amount of difficulty, and held it out to her, suddenly humble. "I don't suppose I deserve this anymore. Do with it what you will." She lowered her hands down from her eyes to look at him, then down at the small gold ring in his outstretched palm._

_Thirty-eight…Thirty-nine…forty…_

_She began to scream again, but she did not scream words. It was all noise. She could feel it rising up from her entrails, up through her chest, her throat, and exiting from her lips, not the powerful wail she had expected, but a tortured, wounded cry, pathetic and defeated. Her fingers deftly snatched the ring from his palm, and she turned and stormed towards the hearth, where a warm fire crackled. She hurled his ring into the flames, then began to remove her own wedding band. She tugged on it hard, in bursts of strength, but it would not come off. Gritting her teeth, she gave one final pull. The ring came off, as did some of her skin, a fact she did not notice as the cheap diamonds met the same fate as his wedding band. Henry silently stood by, a mix of horror, exasperation, and pity. He did not even go to her side at the sight of her bleeding. He knew he could not involve himself anymore. He wanted to be free, after all. She stood there a moment more, eyes trained on the melting metal, before suddenly turning and scrambling out the door, towards their old barn. Surely there was nothing left._

_Forty-one…forty-two…forty-three._

_Forty-three rungs._

_She leaned forward, throwing one leg over the ceiling beam. She must have been seventy feet up. Perhaps more. Looking down, it was so dark and she was so high up, that she could not even see the bits of straw that littered the barn floor. However, it wasn't the view down below that concerned her. It was the one straight ahead. The barn was not more than a hundred feet from their house. From her place on the beam, she had a near-perfect view of the bedroom window. She could see him there, rushing back and forth between the closet and the bed. Packing a suitcase. He wasn't even going to stick around another night. She closed her eyes in silent reverence, never feeling more like a failure. She couldn't satisfy her husband, either physically or emotionally. It must have been her fault that he would stray. But she was so tired of pondering the solution to the nagging question of what she had done wrong. So tired…_

_Well, she wouldn't have to ponder it anymore._

_She let herself have one last look at him, remembering all the details that made her love him; his calm emerald eyes, his hair bleached from the sun, his hands. And then she closed her eyes, allowing him to fade away. She unsteadily rose to her feet on the beam, poised to her toes on the very edge. Her arms rose out in front of her. And she fell._

_Nobody was there to see, but had there been a witness to the death of Katrina King, no matter what beautiful sights they had seen in their lifetime, they would be able to say that they had never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of a heartbroken woman ending all her garmonbozia in a graceful swan-dive. _

_She seemed to hang in the air for a moment, the most elegant of birds with her flowing titian plumage. Her arms swept back, her spine arched. Her eyes remained closed, even as she felt her feet no longer touching the beam, and then she was swept by unforgiving gravity, sending her body plummeting to the hard floor._

_Nobody was there to hear, but had there been a witness to the sound of Katrina King's fragile body experiencing its quick drop and a sudden stop, no matter what horrific sounds they had heard in their lifetime, they would be able to say that they had never heard anything more dreadful than the sound of a heartbroken woman shedding her mortal coil, her skeleton brutally crushed and broken, her organs and veins punctured and spilling their fluids._

_But no one saw. And no one heard._

_It was just Katrina King, receiving all the blessings that never-ending darkness had to offer._

"Mort?"

A startled Mort Rainey suddenly turned his head in the direction of the voice. "Yes…" he spoke, his mind forcing the name 'Katrina' to bob up to the surface, forcing his lips to speak this word, but 'Katrina' was not to whom the voice belonged to. Katrina was not real. And yet she was. Finally, another name popped up. "…Layla?" he finished, perfectly aware that there were about ten seconds between when he began his sentence and when he completed it.

But she was unfazed by his indecision of words. She just heaved a tired sigh, brushing a few auburn strands of hair away from her face. "I made breakfast, if you want a bite to eat."

"Um…no. Thank you…though," Mort began, flustered. She had caught him at a rather inopportune time, when he had become so involved with his story that it was difficult to tear himself out of Katrina King's crumbling world and be plopped back in his own desolate wasteland that was his life. As always, reality was terrifically inconvenient. "I had a snack…earlier…and I'm not…hungry…but maybe…later…I'll…"

Seeing she was going to get nowhere with this, she gave a curt nod to cut him off, murmuring a disappointed "alright" before turning on her heel and heading back down the stairs, the smell of gourmet cooking wafting its way through the cabin. Mort watched her go, his heart sinking heavily in his chest, weighed down by guilt at turning her down. He rose from his seat, peering over the railing of the second floor and watching as Layla ambled back into the kitchen, her gait bearing a closer resemblance to an elderly woman's than that of a thirty-year-old.

Mort mentally kicked himself in the ass for his behavior: brushing off a kind invitation for a home-cooked breakfast, an invitation she made every morning, despite the fact that she was only met with lame excuses. He had to learn to make it up to her. She was hurting too after all, and in the most painfully obvious way. She never asked for sympathy, not with words, but her appearance and behavior begged for it. Not at all unlike Mort himself. But he found it hard to rise up from his own self-pity wallowing.

(_You're not going to make her happy just by eating her food, you know)_

"Yes, you've already said that," Mort muttered irritably, leaning back in his chair and turning his attention back to his word processor, now working his way back to the beginning of the passage and reading over his work once more.

(_So stop feeling so guilty every time you decline_)

He scratched at the stubble on his chin, ignoring his psyche's simple solution. He Icouldn't/I stop.

As Mort poured over his latest work, making punctuation and grammar corrections here and there, he idly wondered to himself how Layla would feel to know that he had crafted a character based on her, then made her commit suicide. She would probably be about as thrilled as Amy had been with her character being massacred by a shovel-wielding cuckolded husband in "Secret Window". But Layla's tale was different. Malevolence towards her was the last thing on his mind when he penned her last tragic scene.

He wanted to give Layla peace on pages, even if he could not bestow it upon her in life.

At the moment, it was the most he could do for his cousin.

* * *

**One last thing, so I don't get sued…**

If the short story that Mort is penning sounds familiar, that's because it is. The concept is moderately borrowed from Stephen King's short story "The Last Rung On The Ladder". It was done just for effect, to keep with the whole plagiarism theme. Whew. Glad I got that off my chest.


	2. And The Angels Sang A Whiskey Lullaby

**Chapter II: And The Angels Sang A Whiskey Lullaby...**

_She finally drank her pain away, a little at a time, but she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind, until the night...She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger, and finally drank away his memory. Life is short, but this time, it was bigger than the strength she had to get up off her knees. We found her with her face down in the pillow, clinging to his picture for dear life. _-Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss

* * *

_Last night, I dreamt that I was swimming in the lake our cabin overlooks. Very strange, because it's an activity I have never had interest in. I don't really have much of an interest in venturing outside the house, and I haven't set foot outdoors since I arrived here. But in the dream, I was happy to be away from the confinements of a house and out in the open air. The sky was sepia-toned, like what you see in old photographs, and filled to the brim with clouds. And it was so warm, not at all like the New York climate. I felt like I was back home again. The lake, like the sky, was no longer blue. Instead, I found myself soaking in an amber sea. It burned my skin, but it didn't hurt. It was a pleasurable, comforting sort of burn. I can't really explain it…but I let myself sink into the lake, wanting every part of me to feel so warm and safe. As I sank into the water, the surface drifting further and further away from me, I felt like one of those insects trapped in the amber sap. However, I welcomed this new imprisonment._

_When I woke up, the feeling of the warmth leaving me was almost more than I could bear. And the first thing I saw, on the bedside table, was a bottle of Jack Daniels, half-empty of its amber fluid._

Layla paused in her writing to take a bite of her Belgian pancakes, followed by a deep inhale on her cigarette. She sighed as she slowly exhaled, allowing a few wisps of smoke to escape her lips, watching them drift up to the ceiling and vanish, before replacing her cigarette in the ashtray. It was a pity, she thought, that smoking didn't kill a person sooner.

She herself didn't know why dreams fascinated her so. Maybe because it was a short, sometimes blissful, vacation from the nightmare that had engulfed her life…if you could even describe what she was living as 'a life'. Finishing up today's page, she found herself flipping backwards in the journal, which she had been keeping ever since she had moved in with Mort. Or at least, she _thought_ she had been keeping. Just now, Layla realized that maybe she had forgotten about this journal for quite some time. There were pages upon blank pages, starting a few weeks after she had first begun writing. In the upper right hand corner, there was a date, written by her own hand, but no entry.

Puzzled, Layla begun flipping forward again, searching for the time when she had rediscovered this journal and begun writing again. It wasn't as though she hadn't had dreams all that time. It was in that span of three months that the torment of her waking hours seeped into her dreams. They were horribly violent and realistic. Some of them involved Frank. Upon waking, she would have to remain in bed for a few hours, unable to get over the fact that it didn't really happen. She was positive she would have written down something like that, to help rid her of the negative feelings they gave her. But her journal told her otherwise.

Just as she was beginning to panic, she happened upon the page that documented when she had decided to pick up her pen and resume journaling. It was today's entry.

Layla stared blankly down at the page, her Belgian pancakes as cold as she felt just then.

...

A few hours, two bags of Doritos, and a Mountain Dew later, Mort wrapped up his latest short story. He was surprised to find the corners of his mouth upturning in a smile, albeit a feeble one. It was the best thing he had written since, well…

(_What if Layla finds it? She's not gonna be happy._)

Mort froze, just as he was about to close out the document window. "She won't. Find it, I mean. She's never even laid a finger on this thing. I…I doubt she knows how to operate a computer."

(_Oh, you should never, never doubt what nobody is sure about. How do you know that while you're gone from the house, she doesn't get curious as to what Cousin Morty has been writing all these long hours?_)

He scowled at the word processor, as though it, not his inner voice, was the one gnawing at his confidence. Grabbing one of his Doritos bags, Mort scrunched it down to a ball in his hands, the few crumbs left in the bag crunching into chip dust. He suddenly realized how badly he wanted a cigarette. "You make an…interesting point…" he managed to choke out. He hated admitting that the voice was right. "So what do you want ME to do about it?"

(_Password protect the document.)_

Mort rolled his eyes, pretending to be stunned at his psyche's once-again simple solution, "Why didn't _I _think of that?" He zipped around on his keyboard, arranging for the password protection. When the menu popped up, asking for the password he wanted to designate for the document, he found himself at a bit of a loss. A cigarette would help him decide…

(_Just pick a damn password. First thing that pops into your brain._)

Running a hand through his blonde-streaked hair, Mort sighed. He didn't _want_ to type the first thing that popped into his brain. It was on his mind so much, it didn't have to pop into his brain; it was already there. Rather, _she_ was already there.

(_It's too obvious anyway. 'Amy' would be the first one she'd try._)

He automatically cracked his jaw at the sound of his ex-wife's name. Even if he himself was the one bringing it up.

(_Come on, she's plenty aware you've got a one-track mind. She knows you all too well. You have to make it something she would never think you'd come up with. Something shocking, maybe._)

Mort pondered this over. Something she would never suspect. Shock her. So Mort typed in the most shocking password he could imagine, 'ifuckanimals', and left it at that. He could practically hear his psyche snickering at his choice as he closed the document window and shut down the computer. Now seemed like a good time to head downstairs and have a catnap on the couch. Unfortunately, there were more pressing matters at hand: he was out of Doritos. Shopping time.

He shrugged out of his ratty old bathrobe, reluctant to leave behind his security blanket. Once, he had considered walking about town wearing the bathrobe, but he looked morose enough as it was. People wouldn't know what to think. He already couldn't deal with all the looks people gave him. He pulled on a pair of shoes and, to hide his bedhead, slipped on a tuque.

"Layla?" he called out as he headed downstairs. She always had a list for him whenever he went to the store. Sometimes, he had no idea what some of the items she had written down were, and would have to ask the shopkeeper where to find them. Of course, it would be a lot more convenient if Layla went to the store with him, but even him begging on his knees wouldn't bring her outside the house. He'd certainly tried. He'd even threatened to forget about her list and just get the things he needed himself, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to deprive her of her one amusement. In a way, Layla's cooking was what Mort's writing was to him. It was something to keep her busy, from descending completely down the spiral. Though Layla was having far better luck at retaining her kitchen talents than he was with his literary talents.

"Layla?" he called out again, the living room empty. He peered into the kitchen, which still smelled sweetly of pancakes and cinnamon rolls, but was devoid of human life. There was only one other logical place she would be. Sure enough, the door to her bedroom, located next to the kitchen, was closed. Mort knocked softly.

"Layla? Are you decent?"

Finally, she answered back, her voice a soft, groggy murmur. "Yeah, come in…"

Mort turned the knob and peered inside. She was lying in bed, on top of the covers, curled slightly on her side. Her eyes were still closed, even as she spoke. "What is it?"

"Just wanted to let you know I'm headed to the store."

At this, Layla opened her eyes, the irises gray and steely as a morgue slab. "Okay. Made the list just last night." She lazily flung her arm in the direction of her nightstand, fingers clasping around a small sheet of paper, which had been scribed upon in her spidery handwriting. Mort stepped forward to the bed, so she wouldn't have to get up, and took the list from her, having to squint at it to read it. There was no window in Layla's room, so it was always very dark. But that was the way she liked it. Only in complete darkness could she get to sleep, and she certainly did plenty of that.

Mort almost smirked at one ingredient that caught his eye, "Dill weed, huh?"

She nodded, "It's a seasoning. Why?"

He was almost exasperated that Layla failed to see the humor in buying something called 'dill weed'. "Nothing. It's just…funny...to me."

"I'm using it to cook up some catfish tonight. Does that sound alright?" She moved her hair out from under her head before lying it down again, the auburn waves spreading across the pillowcase.

"Well…I was going to…" Mort looked down at her, bearing a pained expression. He found himself saying no, yet again. He felt like such a dick for doing this. When he invited Layla to stay, he had told her that they could be each other's remedy. They could help one another cope. But they had been living together for months, and every time she tried to get close to him, have a serious talk, all he wanted to do was be alone and brood.

Sensing his internal battle, Layla continued, "Or shall I make you a PB and J?"

He slowly nodded, relieved that this was something he could say yes to. "I would love one of your PB and J's. Much better than Mrs. Garvey's."

Layla mustered a smile, but it felt almost foreign on her face. Just once, she wanted to have a nice dinner with Mort, just to sit down and talk awhile. Nothing brought people together like mealtime. Except in this house. They had been so close when they were kids, and she missed that kinship. Still, she understood that he wanted to have his space, and she respected that as best she could.

"So…" Mort attempted to be casual, trying to conjure up conversational material, "How was breakfast?" He folded her list and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

"It was fine...I think," Layla frowned, staring at the wall. She knew she had already had her first meal of the day. Of course she did. There was the whole incident with the dream journal...so why didn't she remember eating breakfast?

A trifle concerned, Mort knelt down beside the bed, "Are you feeling alright?"

"I guess so, yeah," she replied, though felt terribly sick inside. All those lost entries. She couldn't shake the feeling it gave her, the impulse to question her existence.

Not convinced by her shaky tone of voice, Mort put a hand to her forehead to check her temperature. She felt neither warm nor cold, but seeing her up close like that, he realized for the first time how pale she was getting, what with her refusing to get out into the sun.

"Your pastiness is appalling, do you know that?" he teased.

Despite his light-hearted comment, a melancholic look crossed her face. "I wouldn't know. I haven't looked in a mirror lately. Haven't wanted to," she admitted.

He slowly nodded, calm on the outside, but a rage building inside him. If Frank Tristan had been in front of him right that moment, Mort was sure he could have deftly removed his head from his body with no other weapon than his bare hands. It was infuriating how a bastard like that had transformed an attractive, once vivacious woman into a humorless recluse.

"You know Mort, there is something I want to talk to you about," Layla quietly said, wincing. God knows how many times she had tried to talk to him about this, and she hoped this time he would hear her out. She seemed to have his attention now, at least. "It was very generous of you to let me stay here. I'm indebted to you for taking me in, when you've had your own problems to deal with. But I can't help but feel like a bit of an interloper. I don't mean to be a bother to you, and I certainly don't want to keep you from your work. I imagine it's like a healing process…but sometimes, I just think that it would be better if I moved back home again…"

"Layla, stop," Mort interjected, more forcefully than he meant to. He swallowed hard, calming himself down before continuing, "You're not an interloper, and you're not a bother to me. That's the last thing you are. I do like having time to myself, but I don't think I could handle being alone up here, knowing that when things got really bad, I had nobody to turn to. I have to tell you…the first few months I stayed here, all alone…things got a little strange. I started seeing—"

"—things that weren't there," Layla finished knowingly, now sitting up on the bed, no longer tired.

"Yes, exactly. There were other things too. Like I would have these strange dreams, of drinking the last can of Mountain Dew or something, something boring and routine, and I'd believe that it had really happened. But then, when I woke up and went to the fridge, there it was, that one last can of Mountain Dew still sitting there." Mort cracked his jaw habitually, getting creeped out just thinking about it.

"God…" Layla muttered to herself, shivering a little. "I know just what you mean. This morning, I…you didn't, by any chance, go into the kitchen earlier, did you?"

Mort squinted, "Yeah. I was looking for you."

"Well, did you happen to see my dream journal sitting on the kitchen counter? See, I was writing in it this morning and I started…flipping back through the pages, you know, and they were all…blank. Like I hadn't even written in them at all."

He eyed her strangely just then, before a look of compassion settled on his face, "No, sweetie. It wasn't in the kitchen. It's been sitting on your dresser this whole time."

Layla turned to look and sure enough, there it was, looking so innocent. She had never taken it into the kitchen with her to begin with. Truth be known, she probably lay down and fell asleep after asking Mort if he wanted to join her for breakfast. She laughed dryly, only a few 'ha has'. It was terribly unfunny.

Mort nodded solemnly, "It's gotten to you too. I'm not sure if this happens to everyone who's gone through something like...what we've gone through...but who knows. We all go a little mad sometimes, eh? Seriously though, I don't want you thinking that anymore, that you're not wanted here. Sometimes I think you're all that keeps me from going over the edge."

She turned her head to the side, suddenly looking very childlike, "Do you really mean that?"

"Most definitely," he replied, giving her a warm smile. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. While the gesture made her smile back, she was dismayed somewhat to smell a hint of whiskey on his breath. "Now, I won't be long," he told her, rising to his feet. "You just stay laying down, try to sleep some more maybe. Always makes me feel better."

"Okay." Layla watched him head out, closing the door behind him. As she listened to him walk outside, heading out through the front door, then the screen door, starting the car up, and driving away, she found herself staring at the print she had hung on the back of her bedroom door. Frank had always hated the random bits of artwork she collected, but then, he was never one for culture. It was of a painting by the Belgian artist Rene Magritte, entitled _Portrait of Edward James_. It portrayed a dark-haired man gazing into the mirror and instead of seeing his face, was instead met with the startling reflection of the back of his head.

It was while staring at the dual Edward James's that she fell asleep. In this dream she was in a car, in the passenger seat, gazing out the window at the beautiful countryside, fields of cotton and magnolia trees, leaves swaying in a pleasant breeze while the sun shone overhead. She couldn't be sure who was driving; she never saw their face. But she was sure it was a man. And the best part of all, it wasn't Frank. There was no comparison. She was pressed up against this stranger, and he had his arm wrapped around her shoulders protectively, possessively. She had never felt like falling asleep while she was in the middle of a dream, but in this one, the peace and tranquility was that overwhelming. Even as she napped, tears formed in her eyes, tightly shut so as to savor the moment, and cascaded down her pallid face.

She never wanted it to end.


	3. Devastating Revelations

A/N: This chapter has some strong language in it. I'm not terribly bothered by this sort of thing, but if anyone is, let me know and I'll go ahead and move it up to an R-rating. It'll probably get there eventually…and thanks for reading and reviewing, you guys. :)

**Chapter III: Devastating Revelations**

_"Ever since you found yourself in someone else's arms, I've been trying my best to get along. But that's okay, there's nothing left to say, but…take your records, take your freedom. Take your memories, I don't need 'em. Take your space and take your reasons. But you'll think of me…"_ – Keith Urban

* * *

_"Mort, what…oh…my God, Mort! What did you do?!"_

_He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name. Amy, his Amy, stood in the doorway, her eyes wild in a grief-induced frenzy. Her fingers trembled, relinquishing their grip on her purse and letting it collapse to the tiled floor; she brought her hands up to her mouth, which cruelly contorted as she began to sob._

_Mort just smiled good-naturedly, spreading his arms out. "Surprise, hon." In one hand, he held a pistol, his index finger still poised on the trigger._

_She spoke again, her hands covering her mouth, but because her voice was muffled and had dropped down to a petrified whisper, he couldn't understand her. Still, it didn't matter to Mort. Nothing she said was going to bring back her beloved Ted. Nothing she said was going to save her now. He took a menacing step towards her, the sun pouring in from the windows of what had once been he and Amy's beautiful home. The home he loved almost as much as he had loved Amy._

_Her hands dropped from her mouth, to reveal her teeth tightly clenched in defiance. Strands of her blonde hair, the hue of hay, were matted to her cheeks, which were sticky with tears and runny with mascara. "You stay…away…from me…" she attempted to snarl, wanting to sound tough, but her voice came out frail and helpless._

_Still he advanced on her, laughing casually, as though at someone making a witty observation. "Why? What do you think I have planned for you?"_

_Amy choked back another sob, tearing her eyes away from Mort to glimpse the macabre sight just behind him. Ted, her Ted, was slumped against the wall, a bullet hole drilled neatly into his forehead, with total precision; however, the mess behind his head, a lurid artist's palette of crimsons and grays streaked across the pristine tan walls, well, there was nothing neat or precise about_ that_._

_"You should have heard him, Amy. If I had a dollar for every time he said 'I'm sorry' in those five minutes I allowed him to live after I walked in the front door, I'd never have to write again. He got on his goddamn knees and begged me not to hurt you. And he cried like a baby when he begged me to allow him to live, so he could…" Mort's triumphant expression suddenly vanished, "…see his child." His gaze trailed down from Amy's face, down to her abdomen. Her stomach had always been flat as a board, but as of late, it was beginning to sport a slight bulge, a rounder appearance._

_"Mort, I…" She began, clasping her hands tightly in front of her, as though she were praying to him, "W-we didn't want to tell you…we knew how upset you'd…"_

_"Upset?" Mort asked, his eyebrow raising. He sighed in resentment, terribly annoyed with her choice of words. "Do you think if I was merely_ upset_, I would have blown his dumb fucking brains out the moment he told me?" He relished at her sudden scowl, the utter look of hatred and defenselessness. "Do you think if I were merely_ upset_, I would do…this?"_

_Without warning, he leapt at her, closing out the space between them. She had but precious_ _seconds to react; Mort was too fast for her, and too strong. He slammed her against the foyer wall, gun still in hand, his other hand putting an iron grip on her shoulder. Amy stared up at him breathlessly, soft but angry whimpers emerging from her lips._

_"Do you think…if I was merely…_upset_…" Mort continued his rhetorical interrogation, placing the icy barrel of his pistol against her stomach. "…I would make damn sure that you don't become a mother?"_

_But suddenly, Amy's trembling ceased, as did her whimpers, and she grew calm, the calmest she had been since she saw him standing over Ted's corpse. "Mort…" she whispered._

_He blinked at her, completely thrown off by her unexpected sereneness. It was then that he realized the way in which he was pressed against her, so tightly he could feel her heart beating beneath her cotton shirt. And he saw that her lips were no more than a kiss-inch away. "What is it, Amy?"_

_She stared into his eyes, speaking firmly, "You don't understand, Mort. No matter what you do or who you kill…I will never be yours. I will never love you the way you love me."_

All nightmares have their moments when the situation gets too intense to bear, and consciousness comes to the rescue to awake the terrified dreamer.

Mort's nightmare had reached that moment.

He sat straight up on the couch, aching all over from his adrenaline pumping too quickly. An involuntary shudder rippled through him, and he was dimly aware of the sweat trickling down his forehead. Within a few seconds of waking, it dawned on him that the last few hours had been nothing but a deluded fantasy. And he wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Grabbing for his glasses on the table next to him, he slipped them on and peered through the rather dirty lenses at his wristwatch.

9:27 AM.

Part of him just wanted to lay back down again, curl up into a fetal position, and drift off into another dream, but the fear of re-entering into the nightmare he had just successfully evaded was greater than his drowsiness. Mort swung his legs over the side of the couch, his bare feet grazing the cold hardwood floor before finding their way into his house slippers. He ventured into the kitchen to find Layla sitting at the table, reading intently from a nondescript novel. A pie sat baking in the oven.

"Pie for breakfast?" Mort asked, scratching the back of his head and stumbling over to the fridge.

Layla looked up from her book, a smile playing on her lips to see him with his hair so disheveled. "Any time of day is a good time for pie."

"You're the expert, darling…" he shrugged, taking out his usual can of Mountain Dew. He placed it against his still-perspiring forehead, the metal cooling him down. After holding it there a moment, he cleaned the top of the can with the edge of his bathrobe sleeve, before popping the top and taking a long sip.

"By the way…" Layla mentioned, her tone suddenly tenebrous. Her eyes darted to the upper-right-hand corner of her novel, memorizing the page number, before she closed it and set it on the table. "She called this morning."

"Who?" Mort asked, in such a way that he knew exactly who 'she' was.

Layla sighed, taking a sip from her glass of lemonade; definitely not the kind you buy in a powdered mix, but made from scratch. "It was about eight o'clock this morning. I was surprised the ring didn't wake you, but you seemed to be pretty preoccupied with whatever dream you were having. I didn't want to wake you, especially not to talk to her."

He glanced to Layla, pausing from his searching the fridge for lunchmeats. "What I was having could hardly be construed as a dream. But I think I'd prefer even that than talking to her. You made the right decision." Then, trying not to sound too curious, "What did she say?"

"Honestly? Not much of anything. She just wanted to know how you were. Checking up on things, as usual." Layla glared down at the table, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, she acts more like she's your mother than your ex-wife. As though you can't take care of yourself. Fucking insulting, really."

"Yeah, no kidding. It's some kind of mind trick she's pulling, making me think that I'm useless without her to hold my hand," Mort muttered darkly, snatching up the bread from the pantry and lining up his sandwich ingredients on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a knife forcibly out of the silverware drawer. "She doesn't realize how much more it would benefit me if she didn't call _at_ _all_."

Layla nodded slowly, running her fingernails over the raised letters on the cover of her novel. "Or, going a step further to benefit you, maybe if she just…dropped off the face of the earth…her _and_ Ted…"

Mort couldn't help smiling at the idea, but the more he thought about it, his smile shifted into a broad grin. "Not to mention Fr—"

He was cut off by the phone ringing, causing his grin to vanish as though it had never been there in the first place. He already knew who it was.

"I'll answer it for you again, if you want," Layla offered, looking up at Mort, her expression of disgust mirrored in his own face.

He sighed, turning back to his sandwich making. Sadly, he lay a few slices of ham over the bread, though he no longer knew why he was making a meal for himself. News of Amy always resulted in a loss of appetite. "Yeah…sure…"

Layla nodded, rising from her chair. When she reached the doorway to the living room, she stopped and turned, the phone still ringing maniacally. "Any messages you want me to give her?"

Mort didn't answer at first, continuing to make his sandwich. To open the new jar of mayonnaise, he practically bayoneted the knife through the seal. Seeing out of the corner of his eye that Layla was still waiting expectantly, he sighed and finally said, "Whatever's on your mind, you tell her."

At this, she strolled into the living room, plopped down on the couch, and plucked the receiver from the hook. "Hello?" she said, not entirely without smugness.

"Sweetpea?" an almost timid, masculine voice answered.

Layla sharply drew in a breath, her grip on the receiver tightening. Her gaze suddenly looked even more tortured than usual. This was definitely not Amy.

"Layla? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Hello, Frank," she said, subdued. Mort quickly looked up at the mention of his cousin's ex-husband, turning over his shoulder, even though from where he was standing, he couldn't see into the living room.

"Hey. So…what's up? How are you doing?"

Layla rested her free hand on her knee, but it soon enough began curling into a fist on its own accord. He was being so casual. He had the nerve to ask her how life was. "Excuse me?" she responded, eyes narrowing. "How am I doing?"

"Yes. I'd like to know how you've been. Is that too much to ask?"

"Un-fucking-believable…" Layla muttered.

"What?"

"How the hell did you find out where I was?"

"It doesn't matter, okay? I just asked around."

"You were never supposed to know." Layla dug her fingernails into the skin on her palm.

"It's not like I'm going to stalk you or anything. Excuse the hell outta me for being concerned about--"

"Peachy keen. That's how I am. And how are you?"

She could hear him sigh on the other end, irritated by her automatic hostility. "Fine. We're just fine, Layla."

"I don't believe I asked about the slut," she snarled.

For the first time, Frank sounded angry, "Hey now, I told you not to call her that."

"Well you know me, I calls 'em as I sees 'em."

Interested, Mort ventured into the living room, standing just behind the couch. He knew Layla could carry her own; she had quite a mouth on her when one got her agitated. But if she wanted, he would bestow a few nasty words of his own on Frank.

"Layla, look. I was hoping we could have a reasonable conversation, but apparently, you're not capable of that."

"I'm not about to waste politeness on you."

"Just hear me out for a second, alright?"

"Fine. Talk."

"Okay. Please don't start hollerin' about this, but I just wanted you to know that Natalie and I…well, we're planning on getting married. In a few months."

At that moment, it seemed as though all of Layla's senses, even auditory, seemed to no longer function. She was only dimly aware of her stomach dropping out from under her, the color draining from her cheeks and even her florid lips, the sudden feeling that she was going to vomit, the blood that had just began to trickle from where her nails were digging into her palms. She probably would have fainted had Mort not suddenly touched her shoulder, having noticed her bleeding hand. She jumped a little, dropping the phone into her lap, and stared up at him. Mort, knowing that something deafening had just occurred, gaped at her worridly. 'What is it?' he mouthed, but Layla shooed him away, refusing to tell him anything. He looked at her a moment more before walking back into the kitchen. And all the while, Frank was shouting on the other end, "Layla? Hello?! Are you there?"

She brought the phone up to her ear again, watching Mort head off. "Barely," she managed to respond. It seemed as though it was someone else possessing her, doing the talking, so she wouldn't have to deal with this massive emotional blow.

Now, Frank sounded almost sympathetic. "I know. It was a shock for me too. Funny thing is, _she_ asked _me_. But—"

"Is there a point? Or does this even have anything to do with me?"

Sounds and sensations slowly began returning to her. The horrible feeling in her stomach hit her full force. She opened up her right hand, uncurling the fist, and stared dumbly at the four small but deep scratches in her palm, at the blood and bits of skin beneath her fingernails.

"Well, Layla, I wanted to let you know that you're invited to the wedding."

Now she was sure she was going to vomit. "You wanted to—"

"Please understand. Just because I don't love you anymore doesn't mean that I don't care about you. Please don't just walk out of my life. I want to at least salvage a friendship. That's all that I want." Lying bastard. Giving her hope like that.

Layla closed her eyes a moment, bowing her head. This couldn't be happening. It was another of her perverse dreams, it had to be. "You want me to be at your wedding, so you can throw it all in my face."

"No, that's not why I invited you. You've got it all wrong. I want—"

"Well Frank…it's not always about what you want. What about what _I_ want?"

"What _do_ you want, Layla? Anything, just tell me." Even Layla would admit how good of an actor he was. Pretending that he cared about her feelings when at the same time, his intent was to publicly humiliate her even more than he already had.

"What do _I_ want?" Suddenly, she began to laugh. Hysterical, demented giggles that she couldn't stop or control even if she wanted to. Stranger still were the words that came to her, everything she had wanted to say to him ever since it happened. "Frank, if I never saw you again, it would be soon enough. I really doubt we should ever be in the same place at the same time. I have enough trouble resisting the urge to drive back down to your house and rip out your fucking throat. I mean, did you really expect me to consider staying in your life? I wasted so much time on you, time that I can never get back, ever again. Even when I married you, I knew what a coward you were. The way you wouldn't even defend me when you heard someone gossiping about me. You didn't even have the balls to tell me you wanted out before you went behind my back…"

"Now wait a minute. Do you think that's what our whole marriage was? A waste?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't fucking mean it. Thank God we didn't have any children, I'd hate to think how betrayed, how hurt they would feel by what you've done. And I know they'd be beyond ashamed to call you their father."

Mort hurried back into the living room, carrying a wet cloth. As she went on with her tirade, he gently took her wounded hand and pressed the cloth into it.

"And as much as I hate your little whore, I can't help but pity her. I hope she sees before it's too late what she's gotten herself into, but if she doesn't, hell, it won't be the first life you've ruined."

"Um, Layla," Mort murmured, trying to keep his voice low. He really didn't want to interrupt her. It sounded like she was on a roll. But he didn't want the cabin to burn down either. "Um, it's…um…your pie…it's…"

Layla pulled the phone away from her ear, far more concerned with what Mort was trying to tell her than Frank. "What? What about my pie?"

"It's burning…I think…"

Growling in anguish, Layla pulled the phone back to her ear again. "Just when I thought you couldn't make yourself into any more of a prick! You made me burn my fucking pie!"

"What?!" Frank screeched.

Layla threw down the receiver, hopping up from the couch with her wounded hand stretched out in front of her, warm crimson-tinged water dripping from it, and scampered into the kitchen. However, she had missed placing the receiver on the hook, which Mort did for her, silencing Frank's confused babblings on the other end, before following her into the kitchen.

Layla threw open the oven door, pulling out the overcooked pie with the hand covered by the cloth. Under any other circumstances, it would've been a very attractive pie indeed. Now, the pastry crust was a dark shade of brown and the blueberries inside resembled a tarry sort of substance. It was completely inedible, beyond saving. She violently snatched the pie pan up again, dumping the burnt remnants of the pie into the trashcan.

"Layla…" Mort began, unable to deny that he was frightened of her intense behavior. "What exactly did he say to you, to set you off like this?"

"If it was any of your goddamn business, you'd know by now," she barked, refusing to look at him as she dropped the pie pan into the sink. Storming past him, she marched to her room, still soothing her wounded palm with the cloth, and slammed the door behind her.

Mort just stood there a moment, giving his jaw a crack, knowing that in her own time, she would come out and be ready to talk. She just needed some time to cry. Maybe break a few things. But she would be all right, just like she always was. He hoped.

Looking to the food he had left sitting out, the half-made sandwich, he decided to put it all away. Food was the last thing he needed.

There was nothing to do now but return to the couch in shame…degradation…sloth.


	4. Lament

**Chapter IV: Lament**

_"And when you lose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown. And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone. And it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around. So have a good drown, as you go down all alone, dragged down by the stone."_ – Pink Floyd 

* * *

Layla did not emerge from her room until the overwhelming day perished at the hands of tomorrow.

Mort was sitting on the couch, as though waiting for her, resting his chin in his hands and staring into space. On the table in front of him sat his usual bottle of ol' Jack and a near-empty pack of L&Ms. He was only jerked out of his trance when he heard her wary footsteps nearby, and he turned to look up at her. She was standing just beside the couch, clasping her own bottle of Jack Daniels in her good hand. Meanwhile, she was gazing down at the four thin scars on her palm from earlier, as though she didn't really believe that they were there.

"_Of course_ it happened," Mort slurred, speaking so loudly, his voice seemed to reverberate off the walls. "Wasn't just another of your bizarre-o dreams." He seized his bottle of comfort, tilting his head back and guzzling another mouthful of the bitter stuff. When he had had his fill, he slammed the bottle back on the table, the liquid inside sloshing tempestuously, before he looked back to her. He wanted to know just what she had to say for herself.

Layla said nothing, but her pale cheeks flushed scarlet, and she ceased examining her scars, letting her hand drop to the side. It was true that whiskey had a tendency to make you a bit mean and it seemed that Mort had fallen under that intoxicating spell. She herself didn't feel an ounce of meanness in her, not just then. She was probably far more gone than Mort, and too hammered to feel anything but hopelessly lost and inferior. Still, as she stood there watching him brood like that through cloudy, drunken vision, she decided that whether he was drunk or not, he did have a right to be sore with her. He was interested in the situation at hand and she had refused to tell him what happened, hypocritically; up till that point, all Layla had ever wanted to do was sit down and talk openly about whatever problems or feelings they had regarding their failed marriages and cheating spouses.

Despite his drunken state and his animosity towards her, Mort couldn't help feeling the slightest bit sorry for Layla. She had been through so much up till this point, but never had her appearance so reflected the misery within. Her sad gray eyes were terribly swollen and bloodshot, her lengthy eyelashes standing upright from their lids in a shock, due to her incessant weeping. Before this, he would've doubted that Layla had ever had a bad hair day in her life; now, he knew better. He thought momentarily about getting her to put on his bathrobe, to see how much of a mirror image of himself she created.

Minutes ticked by, without either of them speaking a word. Mort continued what he had been doing for hours since before Layla left her inner sanctum, puffing away, gargling his whiskey, while Layla stood there, feeling uncomfortable, having nowhere to look but down at the floor. She had never been a great apologist, especially when she was truly sorry. Not to mention drunk. She thought she came off as a blithering, emotional idiot, the words leaving her mouth too fast and without much thought. But Mort deserved an apology, and she didn't want to keep him wondering just when the hell he was going to get one.

First, she started with a plea for peace, to show him that she was no longer angry, at least not with him. "Do you think I could have one of those?" she asked, motioning towards the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table. She was dimly aware how slurred her speech was, and she hoped he could understand her.

Mort looked up at her, skeptically. "I thought you only smoked Pall Malls," he said bluntly. Layla usually refused to smoke any brand but.

"It's okay. I'll smoke if you are." Without waiting for his approval, she plopped onto the couch beside him, setting down her whiskey bottle next to Mort's.

They stared at each other for a second, Mort still looking hostile, and she wondered if he was just going to tell her to sod off back to her room. He had every right to do it. Instead, he just shook his head. "Get it yourself…" he muttered.

Reasonable enough. She picked up the pack, shaking out the last L&M cigarette, and clamping it between her lips. She lit it with a match and inhaled deeply, then turned her head to blow the smoke away from Mort.

"These aren't bad, actually," she commented.

"Hmm," said Mort.

If anything he said demanded point-blank for an apology, this was it. "I didn't mean to blow you off like that earlier," she blurted. In ordinary circumstances, she knew she would've been on the verge of tears right then, just thinking about anything revolving around her husband's "happy" news. But drunkenness and depletion of every tear her eyes could manufacture combined to form a sort of detachment. "I mean it, I'm sorry for that. I don't know what you must have been thinking all this time…I don't mean to come across as so self-centered, as though I'm the only one with problems. I had no right to treat you that way, what with you carrying the same burdens."

Mort sighed, about to take a swig of liquor, but changed his mind as soon as the rim of the bottle touched his lips. "Bottom line is, I can't help you unless you talk to me about these things," he said forcefully, obviously frustrated. He never mentioned that she was forgiven.

"Yeah, I know…" she said, taking another puff on the cigarette and dabbing at her eye, at a tear that had earlier gotten stuck in her lower lashes. "If anything, I guess this incident helps me to better understand how _you_ feel. Always wanting to be alone, have time to yourself. I just…didn't think I could handle having to answer to somebody right then. But it still doesn't excuse—"

"Enough already. What did he say to you? The suspense is killing me," Mort interjected, wildly flicking the ashes from the end of his cig.

Now it was Layla's turn to take a drink of Jack Daniels, a long urgent sip, as if to prepare herself to unfurl the shocking announcement. "Him and Natalie. They're getting married." As many times as she repeated it to herself in her head, she still couldn't fully convince herself to believe it was true.

Mort just about choked on his cigarette at hearing this news, and she had to thump him a few times on the back. "What?" he managed to ask, before coughing up a storm.

"That's the whole reason he called me. To invite me to the wedding."

He suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her to face him. His eyes were now like twin conflagrations behind his glasses. "You're not serious. Tell me you're joking."

"I wish…" she said quietly, dropping her gaze. "I'm not surprised he did that. I know the man pretty well, and I'd say that it was more out of ignorance than nastiness. He doesn't understand that things don't work that way. It's _not_ okay, and we _can't_ be friends again, as though nothing happened."

Mort almost seemed to sober up just then. Realizing he was holding onto her shoulders a little too tightly, he released his grip. He shook his head, not believing it himself, thoughtfully stroking his goatee. "I see now. I see. Your reaction--"

"I mean, how would _you_ feel if you found out tomorrow that Amy and Ted were tying the knot?" She took one last drag on her cigarette. She wasn't lying when she said the taste wasn't bad, but it did nothing for her. She stabbed it out in the ashtray, half-smoked. "If he calls again, just hang up."

The suggestion about Amy and Ted's own marriage only served to further inflame his temperament. "If he calls again, I'll assault the asshole via phone line."

"Who? Frank?"

"No. Ronald McDonald."

Layla groaned at his sarcasm, "Come on. Doing that isn't going to keep him from marrying her. Don't waste the effort on him."

Mort raised an eyebrow, "Are you suggesting a different kind of assault? Sans phone line?" Layla just looked at him, blinking. "I'll do it," Mort offered. "We can both travel on down there. I take him, you take his girlfriend. Then we'll head back up here and perform another double assault."

"Mort, you're a lunatic. Just forget it, alright? Let it go…" Layla glanced down to her clasped hands, then ran her thumbnail over her other set of scars, across the knuckles of her ring finger. When she'd tore off the wedding ring.

"'Let it go?' Yeah, you were doing a great job of 'letting it go', considering all the noise you were making in there," Mort retorted, violently flicking cigarette ashes all over his bathrobe.

Layla rolled her eyes, "Crying _does_ help, you know. It lets things out. What's wrong, are you not man enough to cry?"

"Not in front of you," he muttered. Come to think of it, he really hadn't cried very much since it happened. Sure, he felt like it sometimes, but it was awkward doing it if he wasn't alone. And it was a waste of time anyway. For some reason, being comforted just made him even more emotional.

"Well you shouldn't feel ashamed of it. Hell, _I_ wasn't." She took one last drink of whiskey before she decided that that was enough for the night. She knew she'd be hurting in the morning, as it was. Not that she wasn't hurting now. Leaning back against the pillows Mort had arranged on the couch, she watched him finish off his cigarette. "It's so hard, isn't it?" she wondered out loud.

"What?" he asked, turning to look at her as she spoke.

"Pretending like you don't care."

Mort didn't reply, but she could tell he was thinking about what she said. He looked away, letting himself go into another trance again, staring off into the distance.

She continued, "Just…someone that's been in your life for so many years…the most important thing in your life…and then when they up and leave, you feel like you've lost everything."

He rested his chin in his hands, sighing deeply. "Yeah…I mean, it's…" He stopped mid-sentence, as though trying to formulate his thoughts. He took in a few shaky breaths. "I…I don't miss her. Really. I miss the woman that I married…the woman I thought she was…but I don't miss the woman I found in that motel room."

Layla eyed him, surprised. Rarely had he been this open in talking about Amy. He usually avoided the subject altogether. "Aww, Mort…I know…" she murmured soothingly, reaching her hand towards him and gently stroking his back. He suddenly buried his head in his palms, his shoulders beginning to tremble with sobs. The tears were so long in coming. As she began to scoot next to him, to comfort him, Mort abruptly stood up, knocking over his bottle of Jack Daniels onto the floor, where it shattered, and stalked upstairs to his study. He sat down at his desk, willing the tears to stop, as he listened to Layla set to work cleaning up the mess of whiskey and broken glass. He did not move until he heard the door to her room shut behind her.

"Shit…" he cursed under his breath. "I didn't want to talk about it. I shouldn't have had to talk about it." Spotting a bag of Doritos on his desk, he snatched it up and ripped it open, before chomping away at the crispy cheesy goodness.

(_Well obviously, YOU thought you did. You're the one who started yammering on._)

Mort removed his glasses, brushing away at his cheeks, slick with tears. "Noo. She coaxed me into it. Trying to manipulate me. It's mind tricks she's got. Just like Amy."

(_Mind tricks? What, are they Jedis now?_)

"You know what I mean." He sniffled, booting up his word processor. Perhaps this outburst of emotion could birth some good, powerful writing for once.

(_I swear, the two of you are singing the same song. And badly, I might add. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll—_)

"SHUT UP!" Mort shouted, unable to take his inner voice's singsong taunts. He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth and found himself listening intently, to see if he had disturbed Layla. But there was no noise from downstairs, no Layla calling up to him to ask if he was alright.

(_You both have got to get over it sometime, you know…_)

"_You_ try getting over it sometime, see how easy it is_,"_ Mort frowned, bringing up a new Word document. Unsure of what to write at first, he typed a single sentence: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'

(_Stunning. Now let's see you copy and paste that a few hundred times…_)

As Mort sat upstairs, babbling on to himself, Layla collapsed into bed again. The taste of the whiskey in her mouth had begun to disgust her. She wondered if she ought to try to vomit, in case she had consumed a dangerous amount, but she was too emotionally exhausted to drag herself up again, after she had just gotten comfortable. Rolling over onto her stomach, she buried her face into the pillow, hoping to God she wouldn't dream of Frank and his bride-to-be. It would be more than she could take.

_The first thing she laid eyes on was the sun showcasing its beautiful demise, bleeding deepest mauve and lavender across the never-ending sky. The sight near took her breath away. When she could bring herself to remove her eyes from the glorious spectacle up above, she realized she was sitting on the wrap-around porch of an aged farmhouse. A barn sat just to the left, not more than a hundred yards from the house. In the fenced-in fields before her, cows were grazing peacefully. The flawless atmosphere looked like something out of a postcard._

_She rose up from her seat, as a pleasant breeze cooled the air, her beige cotton housedress billowing around her ankles. She peered into the house through the screen door, but she couldn't see much, as the sky was beginning to darken, and the lights in the foyer, and on the nearby staircase, were turned off. Glancing over her shoulder, back at the cows and the dreamy sunset, she then apprehensively opened the door and ventured into the house._

_The door shut behind her, making a metallic creaking noise that alerted the other person in the house. An unfamiliar man's voice, bearing a heavy Southern accent, suddenly called out, making her jump._

_"Darlin'? Is that yew?"_

_She stood there a moment, trying to collect her bearings. "Er…yes. Yes, it's me." She really hoped she was the 'darlin' he was referring to, and not trespassing on his property. When he didn't answer back, she decided that she must be. The tap-tap-tapping of a typewriter could be heard to the left, so she followed the noise._

_She found herself in a study of sorts, as cozy as the rest of the house. The walls were covered with various photographs in black-and-white and sepia-tone, as well a cultured array of familiar paintings: the very same paintings that adorned her own walls. A man, the man who had called out to her, sat at his desk with his back to her, typing away. Beside the typewriter sat a black, wide-brimmed hat, as well as a pack of Pall Malls. She walked into the room hesitantly, her bare feet making no noise on the carpet, but he raised his head almost immediately, sensing her presence. Her eyes widened as he removed his hands from the keys and turned around in his seat to look at her. A crooked grin spread across his tanned face. He was obviously happy to see her. "Weyll look who's back in the land o' the livin'. Didja hayve a nahce nayp?"_

_A smile came easily to her lips. Whoever he was, she liked him already. "Yes. You should've seen the sky."_

_"Beautiful, was it?" She nodded affirmatively. "Weyll, if I wawna see somethin' beautiful, I doan need to look up at no sky. I got beautiful rahgt here." His smile grew wider, and she could feel him looking her up and down. She was only wearing a simple housedress, yet there was so much passion in his gaze, causing her cheeks to flush. No man had looked at her like that in a long time. He chuckled at seeing her red-faced, then motioned for her to come closer. "Come 'ere. Ah waw-na show yew somethin'."_

_She obeyed readily, wandering over to his desk. He scooted his chair back and, still smiling up at her, patted his lap. Finding herself giggling girlishly, she sat down, crossing her legs. It was when he placed his arm around her waist, protectively, possessively, that she realized that it was not the first time this man had held her. With his free hand, he pulled a page out of the typewriter, exhibiting only a few lines of print._

_"It's that stoh-ree ah've been writin'. 'Sowin' Season', remember? Well ah done finished it. I waw-na know whatcha thank of the ending. It's the mos' important part o' the stoh-ree, aftuh awl. And yore opinyin mattuhs the most."_

_She gently took the page from him to read for herself, dimly aware that he was watching her as her eyes began to scan over the print. She paused and looked back to him again, studying his features. She had so badly wanted to see the face of the man who drove her through the peaceful landscape, and now she had gotten her wish. There was something almost intimidating about him. For all she knew, a madman could reside behind those deep brown eyes. But the way he looked at her, the intense love that reflected so conspicuously in his eyes, and the way that he held her, as though he would never let go, made her think otherwise. She gave him another smile, fully relaxed now, and slipped her arm around his shoulders, lightly tapping her fingertips against the sky blue fabric of his shirt. She leaned into him, laying her head upon his chest, while he rested his chin on her head; she began to read to herself from the page:_

**_"I know I can do it," Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time her death will be a mystery even to me."_**

_"So? Whaddaya thank?" he pressed. "See, ah was debatin' between this ending and that other wun ah showed yew. Now this wun's the more sinister of the tew, but ah decided to let yew pick. Yew've nevuh let me down before."_

_She sighed, taking in his scent of fresh dairy cream, peppermint, and the faint smell of his cigarettes. Quickly, she sat upright again, knowing that if she lay against him much longer, she would faint from absolute bliss. "I prefer this one, personally. This ending…is very good. This one is perfect."_

_He smiled down at her, as she set the page beside his typewriter, on top of a stack of already typed pages; the rest of his story. "Wut wuld ah do without yew?" he asked, his voice dropping down to an almost sensual whisper that sent shivers down her spine._

_By now, she was well aware that this was all a dream. Life was not like this, could never be like this. So s__he would get as much out of this as she could. Caressing his face with her fingertips, lightly brushing at the stubble on his chin, she gazed up at him, drinking in his every aspect, never wanting to forget this. "The funny thing is, baby, you think YOU'RE the lucky one," she murmured in reply._

_He leaned down to her level, and before she knew it, he had pressed his lips against hers. She melted in his grasp, his heat passing through to her. Sighing in euphoria, she let her hand fall from his face as he deepened the kiss, letting it settle upon his own hands about her waist._

_As he moved down to her neck, trailing kisses across the delicate skin, she allowed her eyes to open. They fell upon a painting on the wall ahead of her, one of her favorites by Diego Riveria, entitled "Blood of the Revolutionary Martyrs Fertilizing The Earth" and depicting two men laying buried beneath the soil, while corn thrived on the surface, greedily stripping nutrients from their corpses._


	5. Preventing A Cursed Union

A/N: First off, I'd like to thank all those who have reviewed my story, especially Dawnie-7 and MISSZ-SPARROW for being such loyal readers! 

MISSZ-SPARROW: The farmhouse/Shooter thing actually was a dream Layla was having. Sorry for leaving it so open-ended, I probably should have been more specific about that! That's all I'm gonna give away though…just keep right on being suspicious. :)

* * *

**Chapter V: Preventing A Cursed Union**

_"If I don't find a way to ease my mind and leave all this behind, I'm gonna go crazy without you, baby." _– Montgomery Gentry

…

_He pressed his ear to the door, which only served to pack handfuls of the most concentrated salt into his wounds. He could better hear her now, the noises she made on the other side of the thin wooden slab; a mixture of laughter, gasps, and moans. As hard as he tried to ignore the sounds of the other man in the room with her, still loud but never matching hers in intensity,_

…

Mort paused once again. He wasn't quite sure where to go from here. It had taken him two hours to write this much, barely even a paragraph. Of course, he had done a fair amount of backspacing in all the time before that. Maybe combined, all his inane, useless typing would add up to a story, but in the end, it was just the same old song. Everything he wrote seemed somehow flawed, at least in his eyes.

(_You were on a roll the other day, with the Layla-based vignette. I don't understand what the problem is_.)

He shook his head, eyes bleary. He hadn't gone to bed that night. Too afraid of what he might dream. And staring at a computer screen non-stop since then was causing one killer migraine. "I had plenty to base it on."

(_I'll bet you did. Stevie Baby had a story like that, right? I remember something about a ladder…and some chick who falls off it, and then she jumps off a building_…)

"Doesn't sound like anything King would write. It doesn't…does it?"

(_More importantly, where'd you get the part about the barn from? Sure, the Tristans were Southern-based, but they didn't live anywhere near a damned barn, let alone had one in their yard. Maybe you got input from somewhere_…)

"Maybe ah'm jus' in a Suth-un state o' mahnd these days," Mort drawled, launching into a near-perfect accent.

(..._just where the hell did THAT come from?_)

He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. It was beyond him why his inner voice sounded so alarmed, when he was making light of a situation for once. "Where did _what_ come from? Do you have something against rednecks?"

(_Never mind. Just know that you're scaring even me_.)

"Should I be proud of that?"

(_Sure, go ahead and get a sense of accomplishment from it. If it'll make you feel better_.)

"You're too kind…too kind you are," Mort yawned, slipping his glasses back on.

(_Seriously though. What made you inject the barn bits into that puppy? There were plenty of other ways she could've killed herself. Why did it have to involve a barn?_)

He drank down what was left of his Mountain Dew before smacking his lips and squinting at the screen again. "Is there something you'd like to say? Or rather, accuse me of?"

(_You know you've lost it when you start answering the questions you ask yourself with more questions._)

"I thought everyone did that."

(_I can see I'm not going to get a straight answer. Not from YOU anyway._)

Mort blinked, vaguely perturbed. He didn't understand where this was going, nor was he sure that he _wanted_ to understand. "Who else would you get a straight answer from then?"

(_I would be careful if I were you. Keep those reins tight, pilgrim._)

"Yessiree Bob," Mort feigned a salute. He looked over his paragraph one last time before deleting the whole thing. Now he could start over, fresh slate.

(_This time, try writing a story about something other than infidelity. Just a helpful hint. You're going to get repetitive. There's plenty of other subject matter out there._)

Scowling, he retorted, "When I decide to stop writing what I know, I'll let _you_ take the reins. But until then--"

(_No no no, YOU hold onto those reins, best you can. Oh, by the way, you might want to keep it down. Your mind-trickin' cousin's on her way up._)

He had been so engrossed in his conversation with himself that he didn't realize that Layla was making her way up the stairs. Rather slowly and clumsily, from the sound of it. Hung-over, probably. Was it already time for breakfast? It was all too obvious what she was coming up to ask him; the same thing she asked every morning. Today, he wasn't quite sure which excuse to use. He couldn't help feeling awkward, after speaking his mind last night. The last time he had cried in front of his cousin was at their grandmother's funeral, when she was five and he was eleven. He wasn't sure he wanted to divulge any more about Amy to her. It wasn't anything personal. If he was forced to talk about Amy to somebody, he would surely pick his cousin. But if he didn't have to talk about his ex-wife, that he much preferred. Some things are better left unsaid and better kept inside.

As she emerged to the top of the stairs, he turned in his chair to face her. Feeling another yawn coming on, he nodded to her. "Morning."

She didn't even attempt to be polite. Forget about a cure for hangovers. Hangovers were a cure themselves: for anything resembling a good mood. "Touché," she responded morosely, looking to be in a bit of a daze.

"I believe the expression is 'ditto'." he joked half-heartedly. It had probably hit her this morning, about Frank and his bride-to-be. She only talked about 'letting it go' last night because she was too emotionally drained to even think about taking action, revenge, against him. But now she probably wanted retribution in spades.

She frowned deeply, gazing not at Mort when she spoke, but at some place above his head, on the wall. "I'm referring to you leaving the 'good' out of 'good morning'. A most effective point."

Oh yeah. She was in one of those moods, using anger to cover up heartbreak. A nice ploy, one he used most often. "Yeah well…thanks," he mumbled, unsure of what else to say. By now, he would have expected the tantalizing scents of breakfast delights, fit for any patron of a four star restaurant, to have reached the loft, but there was nothing. "So, uh, about breakfast…I—"

The frown turned to a scowl. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it. The kitchen is closed," she retorted petulantly. Without any more explanation, she swayed over to the retro-looking orange and brown chair close to the wall, and Mort saw for the first time that she had been transporting a fresh bottle of Jacky Dee with her, a moderate amount of the amber liquid drained out of it. The day was young and already she had gotten herself liquored up. Mort felt like saying something about it, telling her it was too early in the day to start up, but far be it from him to lecture someone on when to drink.

He eyed her curiously, looking bewildered. "Wait…what?" He watched her plop down in the chair, slumping low into it.

She rested the bottle on her lap, fiddling around with her hair, untying it from the messy bun she had managed to pull it into earlier. "Why should it matter to you? You never eat my cooking anyway."

"Well…" He paused before saying more, wanting to carefully word this. It was true he didn't have a leg to stand on. "It's just that…I want to make sure _you're_ eating something."

Tapping her fingernails on the neck of the bottle, she glanced up at him irritably. "Are you implying that I'm lazy?"

He blinked, scratching at his neck, "Um…no…Layla. The thought never crossed my mind. We're still talking about breakfast, aren't we?"

"I mean, what, am I lazy just because I decide not to cook one damn meal? Christ Mort, it sounds like something Frank would've said."

Mort just stared at her, truly at a loss now, as well as insulted. Whiskey, he decided, was too powerful to be put in the hands of humans. It turned them into animals…among other things. He glanced over to Chico, who was curled up on the chair to the right of his desk, his usual hangout. Chico was staring in Layla's direction, from where he could hear the clinking sounds the bottle made whenever her nails tapped the glass.

"Okay, um…new subject, Layla. As long as you're up here, how about a new subject?"

Layla didn't answer. She was too busy staring at Mort's desk. He followed her gaze, seeing that she was looking at the deluge of Doritos bags that covered his desk. "You've been eating potato chips this way for thirty years," she affirmed. When he opened his mouth to speak again, she reiterated, "For thirty. Years."

"I really don't need this, Layla. I'm having trouble enough..." Suddenly, a lightbulb switched on in Mort's head. "Tell you what, I'm having a little writer's block. Maybe you can help me think of an idea for a story. I know you've got that dream journal. I'll bet it's a goldmine of ideas."

She raised an eyebrow at him, ceasing her tapping. "Aren't you beginning to think Todd Downey was right? I am."

"Todd who?"

"Don't bother looking through the book. I'll just tell you my dreams."

He nodded, surprised to be feeling enthusiastic about something. "Okay then. I'm all ears. Let's start with…well, whadja dream last night?"

For a moment, she kept quiet as she remembered the night before. The farmhouse out in the country…the man at the typewriter…and all that followed… "I'm not telling you," she murmured, an edge to her voice.

He cracked his jaw, a little too hard, and grimaced at the pain that shot up through his mandible. She was testing his patience. "Was it that bad?" he demanded.

"I didn't say that," she now spoke very softly, to the point where Mort had to wheel over to her in his chair to hear her. Her eyes had taken on the look of flashlights in a fog, a soft muted glow obscured by the murkiness. "The bad part was waking up."

Mort sighed. This was hopeless. Forget it. He wasn't going to get anywhere with this, not when she was in this state. "I see…"

She brought herself to look at him again, carefully uncapping the whiskey and swigging it down, watching him over the rim of the bottle, as though wanting him to react. So he did. He yanked the bottle away from her lips, a few of drops spilling onto the leg of her jeans. "No more whiskey for you today," he said firmly, making sure she was still looking at him when he said it, wanting her to understand. He almost started waving his finger in her face, but decided that was too juvenile. "I mean it."

She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting like a child who's just had their favorite toy taken away, "Fine. Fine. I'm going back to sleep anyway."

Mort wheeled back over to his desk with the bottle, setting it down beside the word processor. He would save it for himself, for later. "Didn't you just wake up?"

"Well, yes. But I want to see if I can have another dream. Just like that one."

By the time he turned over his shoulder, to try asking her about the dream again, she had already drifted off, her head low to shield her eyes from the sunlight spilling through the secret window.

…

Layla looked up from the kitchen table as a stiff knock came at the door, breaking her concentration. A familiar, muffled voice called out, "Mort? Mort, are you there?!"

She was about to answer back, when Mort came shambling down the stairs, removing his bathrobe. "Who is it?" he asked, glancing to her first.

"Sounds like Tom Greenleaf to me." She looked out the window next to the kitchen table, but his truck was nowhere to be seen.

Mort quickly ran a hand through his tousled blonde-streaked hair, then opened the door, obliged to plaster on a fake smile for the elderly man. "Hello, Tom. What's the rumpus?"

Right away, Tom started gushing about his truck. "Oh Mort, it's the strangest damn thing. My truck started acting up when I was on my way back into town. It broke down about a mile from here. Don't know what's wrong with it, and I ain't got tools to fix it anyhow. Would you mind givin' me a hand?"

Mort nodded, still smiling affably. "I'm not much of a car man, but I'll see what I can do. I think I've got some tools somewhere around here …Give me a minute, I'll be right out."

He shut the door, traipsing into the living room to get his tuque. Had this been somebody else, he would've viewed this little errand as something of a nuisance. But he liked Tom. He was a kindly oldtimer who always had plenty of interesting drinking stories. So this wasn't a terrible bother to him. "Layla, would you mind checking for some tools under the sink? It's in a red metal box. Tom's car has—"

"Yes, I heard," she called out, already having grabbed out the red toolbox from under the sink. She walked over to Mort, handing the heavy box to him, while he slipped on his black tuque.

"I won't be too long," he assured her, as he was heading out. He hesitated a moment, glancing towards the kitchen table, where only an ashtray and the infamous dream book were sitting. "Promise me you'll eat _something_ while I'm gone."

"Of course. I was…just about to have a snack," she said, giving him a strange look.

"And no more whiskey!" he reminded her.

"Sure…Mort…" she replied, her puzzled expression intensifying. He must have been kidding. After the hangover she had this morning, the last thing she wanted to do was knock back a few shots.

Mort noticed the look, but he wrote it off as a look of annoyance at him being overprotective. As soon as he headed out the door, Layla returned to her place at the table.

She didn't know what Mort had meant by those remarks. No more whiskey? She hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all day. Eat something? She'd eaten plenty. Hell, she'd even fixed herself the traditional steak and eggs, a much more opulent breakfast than what she was used to. In truth, she had chosen that menu to tempt Mort into eating breakfast with her for once. However, when she went upstairs to ask him, he was passed out cold at his desk, somewhere in Sleepyland. That big breakfast was probably the cause of the stomachache she had now. Or maybe it was just the sick feeling she got thinking about Frank's oh-so-wonderful new life with Natalie. She no longer tried to hold the tears back anymore. If they came, she let them fall, unashamed.

Parking herself in her chair, she looked back to her current entry page, which was littered with a great deal of cross-outs. No way could she describe that dream. Words did no justice. Rather, she had attempted to _show_ what the dream was like, sketching the man. She even depicted him in the black hat she had seen beside his typewriter. It always came out wrong, though. No artiste was she. The man would end up looking sinister, not at all what she intended; and then, when she tried to imagine him in her mind's eye, concentrating as hard as she could, she only succeeded in causing the memory of him to fade away. But then, that's how dreams are. They just don't stick around.

Frustrated, she at last gave up, laying her pen down. She took one last drag from her cigarette before laying her head on the table, on top of the dream book, her tears wetting the pages. Once again, sleep sounded like a damn good idea. However, she wouldn't let herself go into a deep sleep, zonking all the way out. It would just be a little catnap, until Mort returned. Slowly, she let her eyes close, immersing herself in the sheer realm between consciousness and unconsciousness.

_From the porch window, she gazed out at the storm. The sky had taken on a foreboding greenish tinge and the rain had begun spattering the roof so hard, it sounded more like hailstones. She smiled as she gazed out at the sporadic lightning, as she listened to the booming thunder that threatened to shatter her eardrums. There were few things she could think of which she considered to be as amazing as a storm._ He_ was one of those things._

_But where was he? She told herself he was probably tending to his milkers, putting them up in the barn. They were bound to be spooked in this weather. He would be back soon. She wasn't worried. In ten minutes, she would worry._

_Ten minutes passed, but she started worrying before then. Five more minutes passed, in which the power went out, the only light source coming from the silvery moon overhead. She pressed her face to the glass, trying to search him out, but the combination of the darkness and the sheets of rain kept her from even making out the fence. These fears were ridiculous, but she couldn't stop herself from wondering if he was trapped out their somewhere, with no one knowing where he was. Gathering up her fortitude, she felt her way to the closet to grab her coat, determined to go search for him. But then, she heard the back door open, the volume of the storm outside increasing fourfold, and then the door closed behind him._

_Delirious with relief, she stuck her hands straight out in front of her and began stumbling hurriedly and blindly towards the back door. As she passed through the kitchen, she ended up bumping her knee hard on the edge of the table, making her cry out. "Dammit," she muttered through gritted teeth._

_"Darlin', are yew alright?" she heard him call out._

_She smiled, the joy at hearing the sound of his voice overpowering the pain, "I'm okay."_

_"Weyll stay put, yer jus' gonna hurt yerself agee-in, walkin' 'round in the dark. Lemme find yew instead."_

_She did as she was told, resting one hand on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Before long, she heard his footsteps nearing closer to her, then felt his hand brush hers in the dark. She grabbed hold of it tightly, and he reciprocated._

_"Where were you?" she asked breathlessly. "I was worried…I thought you were lost in the storm or something…"_

_"Naw, ah was jus' fine. Yew doan need to be worryin' 'bout me. Ah can handle mahself," he assured her. "But ah'm sorry for makin' yew scared fer me lahk thayt."_

_"It's okay…I know that you're alright, that's what matters." She looked up at him, wishing she could see his face, just once more. "What were you doing out there?"_

_She heard him sigh heavily, "Weyll…ah was takin' care o' somethin'. Fer yew."_

_"Really? What was it?" A vociferous crack of thunder outside made her jump and she pressed against him tightly. His clothes were soaked through with rainwater. "Aw hon, you're all wet. We really ought to get you out of these clothes."_

_The suggestive undertones of this made him laugh out loud. He hugged her tightly and caressed his hands over her back, transferring moisture onto her. "If yew thank so, ah've got no complaints. An' ah thank yew ought to follow suit. Hadn't even been out in the storm, and yer gettin' jus' soaked to the damn bone!"_

_She laughed, not having meant the remark _that_ way, but she wasn't about to correct herself. "I will when you tell me what you were doing out there. Will I be…pleased?"_

_Even in the pitch black, she could sense his guilt. "That, ah doan know. Ah hope so, anyhow. Yew know ah'd never try to hurt yew, right?"_

_She wasn't quite sure about that, being that she barely knew this man, but given the situation, her best option was to put his concerns to rest. "Of course. I know that."_

_"Awright then. It's jus'…there's plenty o' reasons ah did it…" he admitted, running his hands through her copper mane. "Maybe ah should've asked yew first, made shore it was okay, but ah couldn't help it." His voice took on a feral edge, and she couldn't help but be daunted by it. "The sonuvabitch. He done hurt yew too many tahmes, an' ah wasn't goh-na allow it anymore. Him an' that hussy o' his weren't goh-na get away with it."_

_As she ran her fingertips over his neck, her flesh met with a foreign substance, wet to the touch. It certainly wasn't rainwater. It was much thicker than that. And warm. The realization of what he had done floored her and for a moment, she couldn't speak. She wouldn't have known how to react if someone was directing her. Drawing in her breath sharply, she laid her head on his chest, staring blankly out into the darkness._

_"Was ah wrong in doin' that, darlin'?" he asked her nervously, his hands still entangled in her hair._

_She waited for the tears, but to her astonishment, they never so much as welled up. What she felt was the equivalent of a great weight being lifted off her shoulders, an immense debt being paid. "No, baby. You did the right thing. I should be thanking you for it."_

_She could tell he was smiling then, pleased with her response. "They-re's no need. Jus' performin' simple justice, that's awl. Ah knew you wawnted it, deep down insahd. The only real solution to these tahpe o' problems is to cut 'em out o' yore lahfe. Jus' like a cancer. An' that ex-husband o' yowrs was the worst kind o' cancer. Ah thank he woulda been the death of yew eventually."_

_"Yes. I _know_ he would've," she murmured thoughtfully._

_"Weyll, it sounds lahk the rain's beginnin' to tayper owff," he observed, glancing out the miniscule kitchen window. Indeed it was. "But stee-il no power."_

_"I don't think we need it," she commented, running her hands down his shoulders. She just kept repeating to herself in her head that Frank was gone, gone forever, and the contentment that welled inside of her couldn't be kept at bay. "Now," she murmured, with a faintly seductive tone. "…about these clothes…"_

_"We'll get to those soon enough, darlin'," he whispered before enveloping her in a kiss. He leaned against her, pushing her back against the kitchen table, and in doing so, coaxedher to lie down. She obeyed his request and pulled him down with her, their kisses beginning to reach a frantic pace. The rain outside may have all but ceased, but the lightning and thunder still raged, and it seemed to spur on the amorous couple. As her fingers deftly began undoing the buttons on his denim shirt, he gently detached his lips from hers and began applying light kisses across her neck, up towards her earlobe. Meanwhile, his hands roamed free over her delicate curves, tracing over them, and he felt a shiver of exhilaration course through him each time she sighed or moaned. He began whispering to her, his heavy breaths warm on the soft flesh of her neck._

_"Ah'll be a free man in due tahm…and we'll be together…just yew wait…"_


	6. Manifest

A/N: My apologies that I'm not posting these chapters as quickly as I was in the beginning. I've had yet another virus crisis on my computer and I've had to resort to switching between the other computers in my household, taking turns with their owners, to write the chapters. Grrr, terribly frustrating, but I'm managing. :) 

MISSZ-SPARROW: Hehe, okay! One little tidbit – Layla was definitely seeing Shooter's face. Mort is nowhere to be found in these dreams.

**Chapter VI: Manifest**

_"Through this world I've stumbled, so many times betrayed. Trying to find an honest word, to find the truth enslaved. Oh, you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhyme. My body aches to breathe your breath. Your words keep me alive."_ – Sarah McLachlan

* * *

No sooner had Mort entered the house, returning after an hour of making an effort to help Tom, his shirt streaked with sticky black grease, and dog-tired to boot, the phone rang.

Naturally expecting Layla to get it, as it was probably her fuckwit ex-husband, he set the toolbox down by the door, pulling off his tuque and heading upstairs to change his shirt. Normally he wouldn't have cared enough to change into something clean, he didn't even care that he may have permanently stained the shirt, but the feeling of the viscous substance soaking through the fabric and onto his skin was an icky one. By the time he headed downstairs, comfortably numb in his bathrobe, the phone continued its vexatious squawking.

"Layla, will you _please_ answer th—" Mort began to shout, until he noticed Layla at the kitchen table, out cold, having fallen prey to the Sandman. He stared at her, then at the phone, not knowing how she could sleep through such an irritating racquet. Pleasant dreams must be in her wake; otherwise, she wouldn't be so resistant in withdrawing from them. "I envy you, cupcake," Mort muttered, heading over to the ringing bitch ruefully, as though he knew he was going to regret answering. He snatched up the receiver and slowly placed it against his ear. "House of Insanity, how may I help you?"

"Very charming, Mort," the voice on the other end sighed.

"Amy…" he breathed, startled.

"That would be me…how are you doing?"

Who knew she was such a great actress? For a second, he thought she almost sounded as though she cared what his answer was. But he knew better. Swallowing hard, he subdued the urge to tell her how he _really _was. "Fine."

Amy said nothing for several seconds, as though expecting him to pose a how-are-you to her, but he never did. She sighed again, then started in condescendingly, "Look, I called you yesterday. I left a message with your cousin, I hope she didn't forget to tell you."

"No, Layla _didn't_ forget to tell me," Mort responded, not at all appreciative of Amy's patronizing. "I just chose to disregard the message entirely."

"Why would you do something like that, Mort?" she wondered, shocked at the idea of her cuckolded ex-husband not wanting to talk to her. "What's wrong?"

He groaned, anxiously running his hand through his hair, mussing it up, "Just because I don't want to talk, something must be wrong?"

"There are things that need to be discussed," she said firmly, moving away from the subject of whatever she thought was wrong with Mort. He could envision her now, in their beautiful home that was to have been for the two of them, and the two of them only. Perhaps she was having some wine in the kitchen…or watching television in the living room with the volume now on mute…or lying stretched out on her bed…Ted next to her… "I don't want to be a bother to you, I just want to get this thing done—"

"I've been _busy_, Amy. Excuse the hell outta me if I have a life that doesn't involve you!" Mort said, the volume of his voice on the way to a yell. It was her fault that everything he wrote was a retelling of his traumatic discovery six months ago. She was the source of all his desperation, his hatred.

"Believe me, Mort, I _know_ that. You still had that life when we were married, a life I could never hope to be apart of…"

Mort cracked his jaw, sick of taking this whiny bullshit from her. He couldn't stand listening to all her demands, her complaining about how guilty she felt, her I-was-married-to-an-obsessive-writer,-poor-poor-me schtick. But he especially couldn't stand listening to her say his name. He hated the seductive-without-trying way it rolled off her tongue, the feeling it gave him inside that if he had nothing, he would always have her, encouraging him, saying his name endlessly.

"But I didn't call to talk about the past."

"Coulda fooled me," Mort muttered.

"How _is_ your writing coming along, by the way?" Reverting back to the snobbery.

"I've got a few new developments, actually," he said testily, hoping she believed his ruse.

"That's nice…" Amy commented. "Is the cabin inspiring enough for you?"

"Speaking of writing, I really ought to get back to it. I'm on a roll," he lied. As a smug aside, he added, "So let's be honest here, are you done wasting my time?"

Amy hesitated before saying anything, flabbergasted by his insult. "Wasting your time? I'm trying to be reasonable, Mort," she wailed, the tears in her voice all too audible. "And I really wish I could get the same courtesy. If you would just cooperate, we can make this as painless as possible—"

He shook his head, appalled at how simple-minded she could be. "If your intent was to keep pain out of this situation, dear heart, I gotta say, you've done a bang-up job."

"Mort, just hear me out—"

But Mort wouldn't hear her out. By this time, he had to hang up. If she said his name one more time, he really _was_ going to lose it; a big part of him wanted to slap the shit out of her. Hadn't a wise man once said to never trust a limping dog nor the tears of a woman? But still, another part of him, buried deep deep inside his soul, believed that she truly felt horrible about what happened, and so he wanted nothing better than to hold her in his arms again, to comfort her, to let her know that it was all going to turn out alright. But as of late, that part of him was too difficult to reach. He felt not even a scrap of sympathy for her.

Immediately, the phone rang again. Mort wasted no time in snatching it up and slamming it back down on the hook. Growling in frustration, with both Amy and himself, he rested his head in his hands, the beginnings of another migraine ripping through his forehead.

"What'd she want?"

Mort lifted his head and turned over his shoulder to see Layla leaning on the couch, groggily eyeing him with concern. "Fuck if I know," he responded ambiguously. He shook his head and turned away from her, reaching into his bathrobe pocket for his pack of L&Ms. The pack felt rather flat, and as he pulled it out, he realized it was empty. Another growl rose up in his throat as he hurled it onto the ground. He sat there a few moments, fuming, before looking over his shoulder again. "What?!" he demanded.

Layla was still standing there, unfazed. "I just wanted to know if I should fix you a sandwich," she said calmly, deciding not to tell him about the latest dream, the only explanation for her sudden high, bound to be a temporary one. She would almost feel like she was betraying him, if she wasn't completely miserable. Their little lakeside cabin was Misery Headquarters.

"Don't trouble yourself," he said, waving her off. "I've—"

"—lost your appetite. I know." Shrugging, she headed back off to the kitchen, trying to get her mind off the dream and on to tonight's meal. Never had any aspect of her dreams continued to pop up in subsequent dreams. And her dreams had never had another person in it that was so _real, _who could be anyone she met on the streets. But most importantly, she hadn't had dreams of even a remotely romantic nature in a long time. God only knew what it all meant. It could be just some Freud psychobabble; the result of desires for another man, the perfect man, after her flawed marriage and cheating husband. A man who would kill for her. A being her mind had created as a means of helping her cope. And as she had said before, things would be so much easier if Frank just dropped off the face of the earth. Or better yet, if he was brutally and mercilessly slaughtered, until he was unrecognizable by even his closest relatives. Maybe she _was_ losing it, funny farm style. Probably the biggest nutcases out there started out with trying to sleep their miserable lives away, but the lines between fantasy and reality began to blur, and they no longer knew the difference between the two realms. In the end, it was all about wanting something to live for.

Not knowing what else to do, Mort rose from the couch and went to make the long trudge upstairs to write shit that he was just going to delete anyway. But as his foot grazed the first stair, something caught his eye.

The dream book.

_Don't bother looking through the book_, Layla had said._ I'll just tell you my dreams._

(_But she never did, did she?_)

The book was right where she had left it, laying open on the kitchen counter, a great and terrible temptation. Priceless story ideas to get him out of his rut.

(_On second thought, I don't think I approve of this. You'd be invading her privacy. If she found out…_)

The voice was to be ignored. Stealthily, Mort poked his head into the kitchen. Layla was searching through the pantry for flour, reaching into the very back. Her rummaging around was creating quite a lot of noise; so she wouldn't hear him. Half her body was obscured; so she wouldn't see him. If he just grabbed it now, and ran for it…

(_Do you really think it wise to piss off your one and only ally?_)

Without another thought in his mind, Mort quietly lurched forward, snatching the book, and then flew to the staircase, storming up the stairs. Breathing hard, he plopped down onto his computer chair, making Chico raise his head suddenly, sensing Mort's presence, before laying it back down again.

(_I don't know why I even try._)

"You only think you understand desperation," Mort replied flatly, flipping to the very beginning of the dream book. "I'm just looking for ideas anyway. You can't base a whole story on one dream. There have to be other aspects to it…and I'm sure they'll come to me…"

(_But…these are her thoughts, the depths of her mind on paper. You're a thought thief!_)

(_Plagiarist!_)

Mort didn't accept nor deny the charges, and his silence was what finally silenced his inner voice. He didn't spend a great deal of time reading, just skimmed for anything that caught his eye.

_…in a padded room…I wouldn't take their damn medication, so they forced it down my throat…_

_…then he got up from the table. We didn't talk for the rest of the night…_

_…A kind of a Mengele torture chamber, medical experiments gone horribly wrong, coupled with some children who had probably been born with deformities…almost inhuman-looking creature with no eyelids…two tiny infants surgically attached…a little girl with one head, but two faces…_

_…I'm not sure when it happened, but there was definitely a point in time when we killed her in the dark…mercy killing or maybe just so she would shut up…security guards came into the theatre looking for us, so we hid…don't know how we escaped…_

_…came after me with knives…it's hard to run in a wedding dress and high heels…Frank was on the top floor, watching as I ran about like a trapped mouse, yelling to the men to tell them where I was and where to go…I tried to get to the glass entrance, but one of them caught up with me…slit my throat as I began to wake up, and I actually felt the skin of my neck separate as he slashed me…_

_…Frank saw me laying there on the stretcher…I was outside myself and could see that my face was covered with blood…they kept telling him I was comatose, but he wouldn't listen…he left his friend behind on the street as he ran to me, grabbing for my hand…screaming my name…_

Mort rubbed his chin, nodding, "That's very interesting…hardly anything about infidelity, just Frank…I could use this…" He went to turn the page, to look at the very last entry, when his psyche verbally intervened.

(_Don't. Turn. The Page._)

"Why not?"

(_There's something you shouldn't see_…)

He rolled his eyes, pulling the page up with so much force, the edge ripped a little, "What do you know about that I don't? Is it some dream about me…?"

(…_well…technically_…)

Just as he wouldn't listen to the reasoning of his ex-wife, he wouldn't listen to his own reasoning either. Mort was met head-on with a dozen scribbles, cross-outs, and drawings. Layla had begun the entry several times, but had crossed out the words, now illegible beneath the thick black cross-outs. But there were the drawings…

(_I told you not to, silly boy_.)

Mort stared in horror, his breath catching in his throat. "I…I know him…from somewhere…"

(_Just as he certainly knows you_…)

He couldn't explain it, but something about the ominous man beckoned to his very soul. True, it was just a crude sketch, with no real talent behind it. Here, the man was made merely of ink, of smoke and mirrors, but at the same time, there was something flesh-and-blood about him too. Layla hadn't completely finished any of the illustrations. In each one, she had left out his eyes, turning them to vacant black holes in his cruel visage, empty as a promise. Mort wondered if he stared into them long enough, maybe he would disappear into them, never heard from again.

And worst of all, it simply would not matter. _Not to anyone_.

…

Never keeping a grudge against whiskey for long, Layla paused in her cooking to take a few gulps of the stuff. Hadn't Mort warned her against consuming whiskey today? Oh well. Too late now. "What would I do without you?" she muttered, half-drunken, before returning to fixing dinner. She took the pot off the stove, beginning to stir in the shredded asiago cheese for her pasta sauce. Frank had never cared for Italian, which happened to be her specialty; she was rarely afforded the opportunity to cook it at home, and was almost glad that he wasn't around to bitch and moan about her choice in cuisine.

_Ah honestly doan know why any husband wouldn't be grateful for a home-cooked meal. 'specially when they're as good as hers look. Ah could tayll she waws thankin' 'bout him, the way she started stirrin' the sawse lahk she waws butcherin' meat, an' the way her eyes looked all cowld and empty, her mahnd on the past. Dammit, ah hate lookin' into those eyes and seein' her pained lahk that. Thayre she goes with the whiskey ag-eein. Ah'm gowna put a stop to that, soon as possible. She's been fooled into thankin' she can drank the pain away, but it jus' tisn't so. Only makes everythang worse._

_Ah wasn't lyin' when ah said ah'd never hurt her. I reckon she remahnds me of wun o' those porcel-ein dolls…delicate and fragile. All it takes is to drop her once, and she'll break. Frank has about the loosest piss-poor grip of any man ah know. But ah'm gonna fix 'er. Ah'll pick up the pieces an' put her back together ag-eein. And ah'll never let her go fer wun second…_

_Can't say ah've ever seen her this close up. Shore, in dreams I have, but it's not the same thang. It's awl in her mahnd. A mahnd is the only place ah've been able to exist. Until now, at least. What ah wouldn't give to jus' reach out, touch her hair…just for a lil' bit. With the laght shinin' down on it the way it is, almost looks the color o' blood. The way it looks when it first appears from a wound…jus' beautiful. Lawrd. I cain smell the vanilla on her. Jus' the way she smelled in that dream. All that tahm, ah had to keep reassurin' m'self that it wawsn't real, else she was lahk to drahv me crazy. But now that it is real…it's takin' all mah weelpower not to jus' run up and grab her, taik her away from this place. It's not a healthy envir'nment. Not fer her, or Mr. Rainey. But there's still thangs that need to be done. And when ah've taken care o' them, and it comes tahm to claim her, Lawrd haive mercy on anyone who tries to stand in mah way._

As Layla continued mixing the sauce, the whiskey warming her momentarily as it flowed down her throat, a strange feeling came over her that she couldn't shake; the feeling that she wasn't alone. And just out of the corner of her eye, she could see the culprit that gave her this feeling. She whipped around to face him, but before she could get a good look at him, he fled, a flash of black. "Mort?" she called out, stunned and bewildered as to why he would run from her. She scurried into the living room after him, just in time to see him disappear into the darkness of her bedroom, the door closing behind him. From the slit under the door, she could see the light turn on, her room now bathed in illumination. "Mort?!" she shouted again, her stomach working up into knots of fear, for reasons even she couldn't explain.

"What? What is it?" Mort stood up and peered over the railing of the loft, having shaken his concentration from the man on the page to answer her. His complexion was nearly as ashen as Layla's.

"But…you…it…" She pointed wildly, between Mort and her bedroom, while he just stared down at her, dazed. Was this just a drunken hallucination? It had to be. There was no one else in the house. It just wasn't possible. And yet her door was closed, the light on. None of that happened by itself. Layla quickly made for the stairs, frightened out of her mind. "Oh God, Mort…I…it was…" She began trying to explain, babbling drunkenly, reaching the top of the stairs in record time.

"Slow down…slow down…" Mort interjected, trying to recover from his own scare. Even as his attention was on Layla, he knew the man in the sketches still watched him with sightless eyes, from Mort's desk. He hadn't had the presence of mind to hide her book before she came upstairs like a bat out of hell.

"I was cooking and…it…you…" While she frantically tried to get the situation across to Mort, while trying to make sense of it in her own mind, she noticed her dream book sitting on Mort's desk and for that moment, the possibility of a stranger in their cabin played second fiddle to this discovery. "What in the hell are you doing with my book?!" she screeched.

"Um…well…"

(_Told you so, told you so_…)

"What, are you trying to do…use my dreams as basis for your stories?" Layla demanded, suddenly enraged.

Mort slammed the book shut. There. He couldn't see the man now. And the man couldn't see him. "After the conversation we had this morning, I didn't think you would mind too much," he said sullenly.

Layla scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, "_What_ conversation? You were passed out in front of your little storymaker."

He blinked, staring at his word processor screen with a blank look. "No, I wasn't," he denied. "I've been awake since yesterday afternoon."

"Whatever you say. The point is, Mort, I _do_ mind. It's like a journal of sorts for me, and it wasn't for your eyes. Just as your writings-in-progress aren't for _my_ eyes. I certainly don't go snooping around on your computer, do I?"

Mort raised an eyebrow, remembering the point his inner voice had made the other day. "Well, I don't know. Do you?"

"No!" Layla shouted, furious that Mort would ever think her to be nosey like that. "We may share a house, but we don't have to get into each other's business. I would think you of all people would want to uphold that little guideline."

He sighed, casting his gaze ashamedly downward. "If this is about us not…talking—"

"Believe me, I'm _over_ that," Layla said, still shouting. It had become terribly obvious how tipsy she was. She noticed Mort crack his jaw in irritation that she had forewent his no-more-whiskey request today. "But I'd like it if we could trust each other. I was certainly ready to trust you. But how can I do that now? I wouldn't have minded if you just asked to see the book."

Mort turned to her, suddenly as irate as she was. He jumped up, getting up in her face. From then on, it became a screaming fiasco. "I _did_ ask!"

"When?!"

"This morning!"

"But you didn't!"

"What are you saying?!"

"You just dreamed it!"

They both stood there for a second, at each other's throats, boring into one another's icy stares. It was in this time that Layla remembered the phantom in her bedroom downstairs. No way was she going to investigate it. But would Mort investigate it if he knew what was going on? Doubtful. He was far from brave. She swallowed hard, stepping back a few steps from Mort. "Look," she said, trying to regain her composure. "just forget it. How about you go downstairs, put the book back in my room, and I won't say another word about it."

"Whatever the lady desires," he muttered disparagingly, snatching up her damned book and marching downstairs.

Layla followed behind him down to the bottom of the steps, then stopped. She wasn't about to follow him inside, not even to the doorway. If whatever was in her room did attack Mort, she would be closest to the door and would have a running start. She could escape…she could get help. When Mort reached her doorway, he looked back at her. "Well aren't you going to _watch me_ put your book back? You know, just to make sure I don't whisk it away again? Maybe hiding it under my robe?"

When she didn't answer him, just eyed him with the most expectant of stares, Mort hmphed to himself, slowly turning the knob, and shambled in.****


	7. Each Other's Savior

A/N: Have fun on vacation, MISSZ-SPARR0W!

* * *

**Chapter VII: Each Other's Savior**

_"With all my heart, I'm sure, we're closer than we ever were. I don't have to hear or see, I've got all the proof I need...Oh, the people who don't see the most see that I believe in ghosts. If that makes me crazy, then I am."_ – Diamond Rio

Shuddering as she watched Mort disappear into her room, Layla leaned back against the handrail, anxiously digging her fingernails into the wood. Her thoughts were jumbled as all hell.

(_Omigodwhathaveidoneinevershouldhavelethimgointhereallalonenowaytodefendhimselfwhatifitsapsychowho'llkillusall_)

But in no more than five seconds, he was in and out of there, empty-handed and unscathed. Layla stared at him in shock, while Mort wouldn't even look at her as he trudged back upstairs, brushing past her. When her vocal cords were able to function again, she called up to him, "W-Wait!"

Mort stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. He did not turn around to face her. "Yesss?"

She let go of the handrail, unclenching her fingers. "Well…" Not exactly sure what she was planning to say, she winged it, hoping what came out of her mouth didn't come across as _too_ odd. "You didn't see anyo—anything in my room?"

At this, Mort turned around on his stair, expression solemn, within an inch of being provoked. "Why yes, love, I admit I did." When she gasped suddenly, her face contorting into a look of horror, he explained himself. "There was a bed, I believe…paintings all over the walls…a suitcase…plenty of things. Why?"

Layla slowly exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath. She momentarily felt sick to her stomach, getting all worked up like that. "I meant, if you saw…" Thinking fast, she cooked up a lie as impeccably as she cooked up meals. "Well, there was a bug in there…earlier. A wasp or something."

Now Mort was the one to look panicked. "A wasp? Are you sure?"

She gave a shrug, nervously clasping her hands, intertwining and re-intertwining her fingers. "Don't worry, I'll get rid of it." Giving him one last look, she headed into the kitchen, pretending to look for something to kill the imaginary bug with.

His mind at ease about the 'bug', Mort stood on his stair a moment, contemplating, before heading back to his study. Now that he thought about it, his appetite wasn't _completely_ vanquished. The thought of a bag of Doritos was very appealing indeed, but he'd rather not be around Layla at the moment. Of course, he had expected her reaction to be moderately explosive when she found out he was reading her dream book without her permission. However, he hadn't been planning on her even reacting to it, because he had never planned on her knowing. He was embarrassed at getting caught, more than anything. Lord only knew what she thought of him now. Being around each other would be awkward, and it would be best if he helped in keeping that to a minimum.

(_Hey, at least she didn't smack you one._)

He plopped down at his monitor, sulking. "Who says it wasn't about to be the other way around?" he muttered, not really meaning it, but sick of hearing that damned I-told-you-so speech.

(**DON'T YOU DAYRE EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAYT**)

Mort let out a bellow of pain, his hands instinctively shooting up to cover his ears. Even when his inner voice raised his, well, his _voice_, he was never _that_ loud. Not to mention the fact that his inner voice lacked a honky-tonk accent. The agony Mort's head was now enduring was more excruciating than any migraine he'd ever had.

(**YEW LAY A HAND AWN HER, AND YUR A DAYD MAN**)

He cried out again, much louder this time, at the forcefulness of this voice within the confines of his troubled mind. It was as though all the horrible, murderous thoughts that had gathered over these six miserable months had merged into one, resulting in this foreign tongue that could be nothing but evil. Groaning and trembling, he felt himself about to be sick, but his legs were so weak, he couldn't even raise himself out of the chair. So Mort did what he had to; he swiveled his head and body to the side, away from his desk, and threw up, his eyes tearing at the horrid taste of it, his throat burning as the harsh acids glided up over the soft tissues. Most likely, it was _mainly_ acids, considering he ate like a bird these days. When he decided he was finished, he quickly turned his head again, unable to look at the vomit that now covered the floor, as well as his ornate rug; otherwise, he'd just sick up again. Pulling his glasses off, he rubbed at his eyes frenziedly. His skin was the only thing that kept him from going off in a thousand directions at once.

"Mort?" a voice called out, having heard his cries.

"Layla…" he answered back feebly, never so glad to hear his cousin's voice. She was coming closer, up the stairs to help him. He wiped at his lips, which had turned as pale as Layla's skin; his hands were still clammy and shaking like leaves, but, he told himself, there was no reason to be scared. He wasn't alone in this.

However, as he soon learned, the figure climbing up the stairs to be by his side was not Layla. Whatever it was, it had cruelly mimicked her voice, giving him the false hope that help was on the way. As he looked up to the blurry figure, squinting in attempt to discern who it was, the urge to vomit again took hold of him.

It was the man from the book, direct from the pages; A dark specter, wispy like smoke, with a wide-brimmed black hat perched on his head. And his eyes, once empty hollow sockets, glowed with a stark white light. The horrible voice Mort had heard inside his head was now all around him.

**ANY MORE MISHAPS LAHK TH' BOOK INCIDENT, AN' AH'LL TAKE WHAT A WAWNT, WHAT'S RAGHTFULLY MAHN, AN' LAGHT ON OUTTA HERE, LEAVIN' YEW HIGH AN' DRY.**

As the man spoke, his mouth never moved. He advanced on Mort, painfully slow but predatory.

**YEW MAY HAVE MADE ME, BUT THAT DOAN MAKE YEW NO BOSS OVER ME. WE'VE GAWT OURSELVES A DEAL, WHETHER YEW LAHK IT ER NOT.**

Mort found himself no longer able to comprehend any of his surroundings, the terror becoming too great to handle. The last time he felt like this, he had been barely a teenager, pulled out to sea during an unfortunate family outing at the beach. Everything around him was in murky shades of blue. Blue…the last color he thought he would see. And now, the blue of the man's button-up shirt screamed out at him. Mort saw himself drowning in that blue.

**I'LL TAKE CARE O' WHAT IT IS YEW WANT ME TO DO, BUT I AIN'T GOWNA DO SOMETHIN' FER NOTHIN'.**

But how had that scare at the beach ended? Certainly not with his death. No, Mort had lived to tell the tale. All thanks to his cousin…There had been no lifeguard on duty. Layla was the only one brave enough to swim out to him, risking getting pulled out to sea herself. Hers was the first face he saw when he awoke, safe on the sand, choking on salty, metallic-tasting water and spitting it up, after she had worked to force air back into his lungs. She had saved him from the violent azure.

**AH'M JUS' GIVIN' YEW A FRIENDLY WARNIN' AHEAD O' TAHM: YEW'LL HAND HER OVER WITHOUT A FUSS.**

On that last note, the blue faded and was replaced by a heavenly blackness, which Mort allowed to close in on him. It swallowed him whole, rescuing him from the all-too-real nightmare. His body fell forward, dangling in air, before collapsing into a heap, taking the chair down with him. The back of his head hit the ground first, making a sound like an eggshell cracking, but Mort was submerged too far into unconsciousness to feel a thing.

…

The man was still in her room. He had to be.

Listening as Mort returned to his desk, ire began to rise in Layla at the thought of a stranger invading their home. It was vaguely comparable to the same anger she felt when she discovered her cousin to be in possession of the only other friend she'd had these past few months. He wasn't snooping around in a pervert type of way, she knew Mort too well to think that. It just hurt her that he was reading into her personal business, wanting to turn her into somewhat of a cash cow.

Grabbing her bottle of Jack, Layla decided that she would live in fear until she knew for sure whether she had just imagined the man, or if he really was there, a looming threat to she and Mort's lives, or at least their belongings. She hadn't spent a single moment away from this cabin ever since she arrived; she considered it her safe haven, and she didn't know what she would do, or if she could handle it, if her home was no longer a place of refuge. She would make it real fast, wouldn't waste any time in discovering the truth. She would rampage through her room like a cyclone, so quickly that if somebody _was_ hiding out in there, they wouldn't be able to react to her in time.

She counted nice and slow to herself, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, feeling like she was being punched in the chest every time her heart beat, her stance unsteady, her grip on the bottle a bit loose due to the sweat building up on her palms. But dammit, she had to know.

Then she raced forth, scampering like a madwoman out of the kitchen, past the staircase, and into her room, flinging the door open. She realized the light was still on, which it rarely was, as she tore open the door to her tiny closet, the bottle still raised in her right hand in attack mode. Her hands clawed through all her clothes hanging on the rack, knocking a few assorted blouses and dresses off their hangers as she rifled through to the back of her closet. Then she turned and jumped onto her bed, standing tall so she could see over to the other side, where someone could plausibly be hiding out. Lastly, in one swift movement, she jumped off her bed, landing hard on her knees, and pushed up the bedskirt, wildly looking around for the presence of a warm body.

Nothing.

Nada.

"Fuck…"

She resisted the urge to hurl the bottle across the room as she stood up. Instead, she flopped down onto her bed, the bursts of energy borne of fear quickly leaving her. So she _had _just imagined it. Layla wasn't sure whether to be relieved or, strangely enough, disappointed, and for the upteenth time today, she felt ready to cry. How had the night gotten so fucked up in little more than ten minutes? The day hadn't been too unbearable, had it? Not for her, at least. The dream and all—

"But that's all it was…" a suddenly more reasonable Layla found herself whispering, to no one in particular. "Just a dream, and I can't forget that. Serves me right for relying on a fantasy world to make me happy. If I just got my head out of the clouds—"

While deep in thought, she could've sworn she heard someone saying her name. They sounded far away, but the despair in their voice was apparent. She looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it was Mort who was calling her, but he didn't call out to her again. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold, and turned over on her side, curling up into a fetal position. The whiskey sloshed around in the bottle that was damn near welded to her right hand, trying to tempt her into having a sip, but she was no longer thirsty. Last thing she needed was more alcohol to muddle her up worse. It already had her…

Wait a minute…hadn't Mort complained about that to her? Something about seeing things that weren't there?

Then the precarious thud sounded from the floor above her, too loud to ignore. She was already cold, but the resonance of that noise turned her blood to ice. She disliked Mort at the moment, that was true, but the thought of him getting hurt, even now, was more than she could bear. One of those _odi et amo_ things. In no time at all, she had leapt up from her bed, another burst of newfound energy coursing through her. Her fear that Mort was hurt in some way exceeded even the fear of the unknown as she hurried to the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, dropping her Jack Daniels somewhere along the way.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, unless you counted the fact that Mort lie unconscious on the floor, folded over on himself. The large puddle of vomit next to his desk had begun to attract Chico's attention; he was gingerly lowering himself from his chair, as though he were a grocery store patron heading over to the free sample stand.

"Chico, no!" Layla shouted. The old blind dog stopped in his tracks, staring up in the direction of her voice. "Go downstairs, git!"

Layla had lived in the same house as Chico long enough to know two things about him: he never obeyed commands, and he had never been a ferocious sort of dog. Chico stayed within bounds of his personality with the first never, staying put where he was, but when Layla rushed to Mort's side, Chico broke character. He begun growling at her in a low tone, baring his tiny teeth, as his ears flattened against his head.

She took a cautious step back, a bit startled by the way Chico was acting. He was probably just trying to be protective of his owner. Still, he had never showed any signs of aggression towards Layla, not once. "Chico, bad dog. I said git!" she reiterated.

The growls turned to barks as Chico stared her down with his sightless eyes, seemingly about to lunge towards her. With all this noise, Mort began to awaken from his stupor. "Ugh…Chico…stop…" he groaned, brushing his hair out of his face.

"Oh God, Mort…you're alright," Layla gasped. She decided to take her chances with the agitated Chico, pushing past the dog to get to Mort. She knelt down beside him as Mort placed a hand to the back of his head, trying to lift himself off the ground. "Are you bleeding?" she asked anxiously. Chico snapped at her, and in retort, Layla grabbed him by his collar, pushing him away as he continued yapping at her.

"No…no, I'm not," Mort muttered. He half-squinted, half-glared at Chico, who persisted on treating Layla like she was something to be destroyed. "Chico, get OUT!" he yelled sternly, as Layla helped him into a sitting position. Daunted, not by the command, but by his owner scolding him, Chico ceased his barking and whimpered, high-tailing it downstairs.

Layla looked him over, lightly running her fingers over the bump at the back of his head. "I think you might have a concussion…" she murmured, gazing into his pupils to see if they were dilated. "What happened? One minute you were fine, and the next…"

Mort held onto her shoulders, squinting as he tried to focus on her face, trying to remember the events that occurred before he found himself on the floor. Just as before, Layla had come to his rescue. "I…" he began, but he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence.

She watched him with some amount of concern. This didn't sound good. "Do you remember _anything_ that happened before you fell?"

"It…I-I don't know…it's difficult to make out…" Mort let his eyes close, fumbling through the files of his mind. A few moments of this, and he had to give up, heaving a sigh of distress. It hurt his head too much to think. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "Nothing."

She decided to test him. "Well what about my book?"

"Your dream book?"

"Yes."

He raised an eyebrow, rubbing his head again. How could she know of his plans to read her book for story ideas? "What _about_ your dream book?"

Layla frowned, studying his eyes for any look of real recognition upon bringing up the subject of her book. He seemed to be telling the truth about not knowing, but how could he not remember that little scuffle? "You could have a really serious injury, Mort. I think we should call a doctor."

(_She'll do no such thing. Tell her that._)

"You'll do no such thing," Mort repeated the words of his inner voice, reaching his arm up to his desk, reaching blindly for his glasses.

With a sigh, Layla grabbed his glasses for him, miles out of his reach, and slipped them on him. "Don't be childish, Mort. What if—"

"Forget about it," Mort interjected rudely, surprised that he was getting so exasperated with her; she was only trying to help after all, but he couldn't help how he felt. "I'm going to lay down." He pulled out of her grasp and stood up, grimacing at the awful acidic taste in his mouth.

"If you have a concussion, you shouldn't sleep," Layla prattled, also getting to her feet.

Mort shook his head, wanting to ignore her, but it only caused his head to ache worse. "Maybe I'll remember something when I wake up."

"At least let me put some ice on your head!" She kept a close watch on him as he began ambling rather tremulously towards the stairs. "Oh no, you don't…you're going to your own bed for once." Layla commandeered him, taking him by the shoulders and steering him into his bedroom, where he hadn't slept in quite some time. It was always the couch, the couch, the couch. "The couch doesn't give you enough support. The bed will be much more comfortable."

"Can't you just leave me alone now? I'm fine." Mort muttered, trying to wrench himself out of her grasp, but she kept a tight hold on him, having to shove him towards the bed.

Now it was Layla's turn to get annoyed. "No! I will NOT leave you alone! Head injuries are serious, Mort. People die from these sorts of things."

Grumbling to himself, Mort surrendered to her wishes and sat down on the edge of his bed. The only way to stop her nagging would be to do as she said. But what was wrong with dying? Didn't sound like such a bad idea to him.

"Doesn't it scare you that you can't remember anything?" Layla pressed. "Like what made you sick, and what made you fall out of your chair in the first place?"

Mort didn't have an answer for that. He struggled to find an excuse, to get her off his back.

(_Blame it on your starving yourself. Of course you're weak and sickly. You've hardly eaten at all today._)

"For God's sake, Layla, just calm down," he said, more confident now, "It's probably because I haven't been eating very much lately." Mort lay back onto his pillows, wincing as his injured head touched the fabric, soft as it was. He was forced to lay on his side.

Layla seemed to be swayed by this. "Well yes, that would certainly do it. And here you were today, begging _me_ to eat something."

"We're each others savior, I guess," Mort remarked as she tucked him in, pulling the covers up to his shoulders.

A smirk graced her lips, the comment giving her a faint warm-and-fuzzy feeling inside, though she knew he had probably intended it sarcastically. "Some savior _you_ are, Mister Lumpy," she said, reciprocating his sarcasm.

"Go on now," he said, gazing up at the ceiling. "Go be someone else's mother for awhile."

"As you wish," Layla replied, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before he could stop her. "I'm just…glad you're okay."

She walked out the door, a bit reluctantly, and looked back at him when she reached the doorway. She wasn't too worried about him now. It was typical of those who suffer concussions to be irritable. And it seemed quite plausible that his scant eating had caused him to get so sick. But a small part of her, in the very back of her mind, made her wonder if that wasn't the reason at all. Maybe—

"So tell me," Mort wondered aloud, when Layla had left, shutting the door halfway. "What really _did _cause me to black out just then?"

(_You mean you don't know?_)

"Obviously not. I can't remember a damn thing, so would you mind enlightening me?"

(_I'd tell you if it was important. You know that..._)

"And?"

(_And it is important. But I can't tell you._)

Mort pulled the covers up to his chin, allowing his eyes to close. "Why not?"

(_He's grown too powerful to stand up to. And if he destroys me, you'll have nothing left._)

"Who? Who are we talking about?" he mumbled sleepily, too tired for the words to truly sink in.

(_The Kool-Aid Man, that's who. That glass bitch. Sweet dreams, Morty..._)

...

The first thing Layla did was head downstairs for some ice for Mort's head, whether he liked it or not, as well as to get some cleaning materials for the mess he made. Layla disregarded Chico's growling at her from his bed, both when she came down the stairs, and when she walked back up. Stupid dog.

When she entered Mort's room again, he was already out like a light. She watched him awhile, just to make sure he was still breathing, before she grabbed his other pillow and lay it against his back, so he wouldn't roll over. Then she carefully applied the bag of ice, wrapped in a paper towel, to the back of Mort's head. The chill of the icepack made him stir a little, but he remained asleep, lying still. Hopefully he would stay just like that for the duration of the night. She would check on him every now and then, she decided, just to make sure. Relieved that she had done something to help along his healing, she shut the door halfway behind her and walked into the study.

Now for the vomit.

She approached it slowly, like one might approach a dangerous animal. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cleaned up puke, especially someone else's. It didn't get any worse than this. After a few minutes of psyching herself up, she went for it.

It would be better not to go into the gory details. But Layla was pretty proud of herself afterwards, having only felt the urge to throw up herself a few times. As she finished rinsing the stain with water, scrubbing at it on her hands and knees with a sponge, a now familiar feeling came over her. A feeling she couldn't shake: the feeling that she wasn't alone in the study. This time she couldn't see anyone out of the corner of her eye: they would have had to be directly behind her, out of her line of vision. She knew that if she turned around, she would see him standing there, the man in black, expressionlessly gaping at her as she did the most menial of tasks, just as he had watched her cooking the dinner that now sat in the kitchen, cold and unedible. That's what she envisioned anyway. But this time, she wasn't going to be afraid of him. Without a thought in her mind, she boldly turned around to face…

Nothing.

Nada.


	8. A Misguided Requiem For A Dream

**A/N: **The Kool-Aid thing was from a comedy routine by Dane Cook. He doesn't like it when juice wears tights. :D

Welcome back, MISSZ-SPARR0W! A most interesting theory you've got there…let's see if it holds up, eh?

**Chapter VIII: A Misguided Requiem For A Dream**

_"I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you'd feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't wanna go home right now. All I can taste is this moment, and all I can breathe is your life. Well sooner or later, it's over. I just don't wanna miss you tonight. And I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand. Well everything's made to be broken. I just want you to know who I am." _– Goo Goo Dolls

* * *

_When she turned over her shoulder a second time, she caught a momentary flash of him, rushing back to his hiding place behind the doorframe. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from smiling, turning back to her work. She would catch him eventually. Squeezing the water out of her washrag, she resumed scrubbing at the stained tile, pretending she didn't notice when she heard his heavy footsteps ease back into the room to watch her. She hummed a few bars of a random melody to herself before breaking the silence._

_"That's right. You just go ahead and slink around, you bad boy. I want you to think good and hard about what you've done, and how you're going to improve yourself."_

_"Ah already apologahzed, darlin'," he said with a grin, throwing his hands up defenselessly. "An' ah meant it sincerely. Yore not gowna punish me, are yew?"_

_She scrubbed harder, using her fingernail to help remove the splatters of gravy that had begun to crust over. "Well now, I don't know. I haven't quite made up my mind what I'm going to do with you." She let out a few chuckles, while thinking of all the suitable 'punishments' she could give him._

_He strolled closer, his tall shadow falling over her. "Weyll good. That gives me tahm to perhaps sway yew on yer verdict."_

_"Maybe…" she remarked coolly, suddenly turning to look at him, sitting up on her heels. She couldn't help laughing again when he was quick to put on a bashful act, feigning that his eyes had been trained on the slowly disappearing stain on the floor, rather than fixated on her backside. "But in the end, I could rule that you spilled the gravy on purpose, just so you could get me into this oh-so-tantalizing position. God only knows how long you've been watching me, and it wasn't due to the thrill of stain removal." With a look that said 'beat-that', she got down on all fours again and turned her attention back to cleaning._

_"Now now, ah would never spill any o' yore tasty food on purpose," he said, his tone turning serious. "Not even jus' to get yew into this position yew speak of. Heyll, if ah wawna do thayt…" His voice dropped to a low whisper as he knelt down next to her, his fingertips coursing over her hip, feather-light, across the sinuous curve that led to her waist, "…ah jus' gotta PUT_ _yew in thayt position."_

_Trying to ignore the pleasurable shudder that threatened to make her whole body tremble while he stroked over her stomach, working his way to her breasts, she cleared her throat and continued scrubbing as usual. He was testing her in the worst way, seeing how long it would take her to succumb to him. And she loved every minute. It was their little game, one in which everybody won. "Good point there…so does this mean my case no longer holds any ground? Seems to me I'M the one who's being punished now."_

_"Oh, this isn't punishment, darlin'…but ah can easily arrange fer it." He leaned his face close to hers, his stubbly cheek against her smooth cheek. She found that she had to stop scrubbing; she was simply no longer able to concentrate. It was when he abandoned the soft touch of before, his hand closing over her breast and giving it a firm squeeze, that she broke. And he was ready for her._

_Acknowledging that he had finally driven her mad with lust, her lips groped forward to reunite themselves with his, but he had other plans. He deftly wrapped his other arm around her slim figure and jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him in his arms. She let out a shriek of surprise before dissolving into giggles as he swiveled her around in his grip, getting her into a position that was comfortable for the both of them; his arms resting beneath her shoulders and the crook of her knees. At this, he stalked out of the room, turning sideways through the kitchen doorway to fit them both through it, a Frankenstein carrying his bride over the threshold and towards the stairs to begin their honeymoon._

_As she wrapped her arms around him, tightly hugging his neck, Frank suddenly invaded her thoughts. The late Frank Tristan. Sigh. It was too good to be true. Too good to be true…_

**_EXACTLY_**

_It was with this one simple sensible word, shouted at her by her realistic-minded subconscious, that she realized in the dream what she had realized in reality the night before._

_These fantasies were her way of torturing herself, ripping away every tattered shred of dignity she had left. She was sure that no man could ever love her after Frank was through with her. So she felt she had to create someone to love her without condition. A man who would take a shovel to all her problems and lay them to rest. A man who had started to materialize even when she was awake._

_"What is happening to me?" she said out loud._

_"What'd yew say?"_

_She looked up at the man who carefully cradled her in his arms, staring in disbelief. They were now in the foyer, the golden sunset spilling through the screen door but slowly making a changeover to purple twilight. "Please…put me down."_

_The look in her eyes made him stop in his tracks. Even with the mind of a writer, he had no way to describe what he saw, but the deep fear their appearance put into him was unmistakable. Already, he knew where this was going. And he knew this particular dream wasn't going to end well. "What's wrong, darlin'?" he asked, trying to remain cheerful._

_"I said, put me down," she said more forcefully, loosening her grip around his neck. "We need to talk about something."_

_"Can it wait?" While he knew there was no sense in prolonging the inevitable, he couldn't help hoping that there was some way they could avoid this._

_She shook her head, solemn as the grave. "Not really. No."_

_With the briefest hesitation, he settled her down on the ground, not letting go of her even when her feet were firmly planted on the floor._

_"I think…I've been lying to myself," she began, speaking with a great deal of pauses between phrases, trying to choose her words as carefully as possible. "I think I've tried to make myself believe that you're real...and Frank is gone...and that all this…" she gestured around her, the room of the house she longed to live in. "…is more than just a misbegotten…flight of the imagination. But I can't dwell on dreams. Especially when what I've created…in my head…starts creeping into reality."_

_"Yew mean last naht?" he asked, trying to smile, but it came out rather sheepish. Just the thought of the way she had looked in the kitchen, outside of dreams, made him weak in the knees. Her blood-red hair…the seductive aroma of vanilla that hung over every inch of her… "Ah jus' wawnted to see yew, is awl. Mah culinary goddess."_

_She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, leaning her forehead against his chest as though about to swoon. How she loved the sound of that…it made her never want to cook for anyone else again, only him. But, she thought, it was nothing more than herself willing him to say what she wanted to hear. She was pulling the strings. "This whole thing really has me…questioning my sanity."_

_He gently took hold of her chin and tilted her head up to look at him__. "It's not yew who's crazy."_

_"Well it sure feels that way..." Then, as she pulled out of his grip, she suddenly began to snicker uncontrollably, the same delirious laughter that had erupted from her lips the night she got that phone call from Frank. "This is...unbelievable. This is nothing more…than just your…voice in my head…and I'm still addressing you…as though you're an actual person..."_

_She expected him to look at her as though the very last piece of mind she had had crumbled away, but he was anything but taken aback. He just shook his head as though regretful, and he suddenly looked very old to her. "Jus' know one thang: Ah'm here on mah own accord," he said quietly. "Because ah wawnt to be here. Not becawse yew created me." __Damn it all. This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't wanted her to ask questions like this too soon, when he couldn't yet explain himself. Once, he had told her that he would never hurt her, but he could see no other way around it just now. __"Look, darlin'…" But before he could finish, she did the hurting for him. She had stopped laughing, for the situation was no longer funny. Now he was aware of what he had seen in her eyes that frightened him so: the lifelessness._

_"I have to get rid of you. Just get out of my head."_

_The look on his face would have been no different than if she had pulled a screwdriver out from behind her back and drove it into his chest. He knew she only said it because she didn't know what was going on. He knew she only said it because she was hopelessly confused. He knew it…but he couldn't help being floored, at the way the harsh words etched themselves painfully into his heart, seeping into him with the swiftness of deadly poison. Intense emotions, for someone who wasn't real._

_Before he could speak, she had turned her back on him and stormed outside, the screen door slamming shut behind her. As she walked down the porch steps barefoot, her breath caught in her throat, both at the beautiful country surrounding her, unreal as it was, and at the uncontrollable urge to let loose with the waterworks. She hugged her arms to her chest, finding herself wishing it were_ his _arms around her instead. Even when she tried to push away this fantasy, he just came floating back into her mind. It was like a sickness from which she couldn't recover. When she reached the fence, she allowed herself to collapse beside the posts. The dewy grass was pleasantly cool to the touch, yet the thought of being below the grass, resting deep underground, was so much more appealing._

_Every step away from him she took sank him lower into the depths of despair. He had to turn away from the sight of her leaving him behind, knowing that watching for too long would drive him to something he would regret. All he could do now was comfort himself with the thought that tomorrow, the seeds would be planted in her mind that he was more than a creation._

_ "Yew'll never get rid o' me, Layla. And that's the end of it."_

…

Layla's eyes flew open, barely able to make out the shapes of her furniture in the dark. Grudgingly, she rose into a sitting position, switching on the lamp on her bedside table, not bothering to check the time. She couldn't have cared less. When she rubbed at her eyes, she realized that she had again been sobbing in her sleep.

Enough. She had to stop this inane crying every day. Maybe Mort had it right. Maybe dwelling on her emotions wasn't helping at all. She couldn't help feeling like she was back in high school, bawling herself silly over the latest silly boy who had broken her silly heart.

That was one thing she hated about herself: her reluctance to accept change. She would try to tell herself that it was for the best and that you just have to let some things go, but she wouldn't believe it. She couldn't bring herself to accept that Frank just didn't love her anymore and that he had moved on. But she was just going to have to, or else…was she really going to spend the rest of her life pining over him, or even more absurd, for a man in her dreams?

Drawing her knees up to her chest, she stared at a weeping Frida Kahlo on her wall, the salty tears dripping down from the many nails that had been driven into her lovely tanned face. Hadn't Frida's husband also been a womanizer? But yet, she had always stood by him. She had to hate him for his infidelities, any woman would, but the love she felt for him overpowered the hatred. Layla certainly couldn't relate to that.

Love conquers all?

Bullshit.

Love had yet to make a believer out of her.

The distant swishing sounds of paper being torn and sorted through could be heard outside her door. Ah, Mort was awake already. It was a good sign that he was up and about, after the scare last night. God, how he'd frightened her. He badly needed someone to take care of him. A motherly figure, like. But Layla was no mother, and contrary to what Mort had said last night, she was no savior either. She couldn't give him the help he needed, nor was she sure that anybody could.

Maybe it would be realistic to think that both she and Mort were destined for lifelong unhappiness.

Layla lifted her head when the phone rang. Oh, the possibilities of who it could be. Frank? Amy? Tom of the formerly broken-down truck? Mort answered the mystery after a few isolated rings.

"Hello?" she heard him say. "Oh, yes. Hello, Rita."

"Rita…Oh for fuck's sake…" Layla groaned, pushing the covers off of her and quickly pulling on some suitable day clothes. Rita didn't call often, which was not at all a bad thing in Layla's opinion, but when she did, it was best to answer. Because if both Layla and Mort didn't speak to a family member when they called, everyone else would start ringing up the place, worried sick.

"Fine…yeah. We're both fine up here. Don't have to worry about us…no, I think she's still asleep."

"I'm awake!" she shouted, bursting out of her room. "I'm awake!" As she hurried into the room, she stopped in her tracks. It looked as though some unexpected snow flurries had come blowing in through the living room. The floor was littered with scraps of paper, ripped out of books and newspapers. Mort stood at the couch, right in the middle of it all, looking like a kid who has just had the time of his life making a huge mess and not caring what trouble he was going to get into for it. Calm as a Hindu cow. "Nevermind, here she is," Mort said into the receiver. Then he held the phone out to Layla. "It's for you."

She stared at him like he'd just sprouted a pair of tits, but managed to snap out of it when he started rattling the phone in his hand, humming the Jeopardy! theme. "What the hell have you been doing? When did you wake up?" she hissed, after snatching the phone and placing her hand over the receiver, awkwardly stepping over the scattered papers.

"I'm remodeling," Mort muttered, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. He sat down on the couch and looked up at Layla expectantly, obviously wanting to listen in to the inevitable catfight.

Layla eyed the cancer stick momentarily, a sudden nicotine craving hitting her hard. But she would puff away later. Now she had to deal with the sister she could never live up to. "Hi, Rita."

Rita Bateman was older than Layla by seven years, and had succeeded in all the aspects of life in which her sister had failed. Happily married fifteen years. Mother of two 'wonderful' children. A ruthless businesswoman with a most comfortable, if not repulsive, salary.

"Finally decided to grace the world with your presence, did we?" Rita answered with a laugh, the epitome of snob chic as always.

"What do you want?" Layla asked icily, rather than dignify her condescending remark with comment.

"Can't I make a call to my sister without getting bitched out?" Rita clamored, making a habit of enforcing her hypocritical rule that while she could be rude, no one was allowed to be rude back to her.

"Sure. But I've always made exceptions in your case."

Rita sighed impatiently, "Let's gain some maturity, shall we? There's more important things than having the last word."

"That's a good mantra for you. Keep telling yourself that." Layla sat down next to Mort, glancing at him and watching enviously as he blew smoke rings into the air. The smell of the cigarette was really getting to her, despite knowing that an L&M wasn't going to satisfy her cravings.

"Goddamn…I don't know how Mort lives with you."

"You lived with me too, once upon a time."

"Yes, but that nightmare's over, thank God," Rita gushed. "And this conversation will be too if you don't let me get a word in edgewise."

Layla rested her head in her hands, resisting the urge to hurl the phone across the room, where it would lie amongst the ruins of documents and manuscripts. Much as she hated to admit it, she was painfully curious as to why Rita called. "I…just…asked you…what you wanted," she said, her words spaced out due to her clenching her teeth. It was terribly hard to avoid using any profanity at that moment, but if she did, it would just spur Rita on worse. Whatever she had to say seemed to weigh in with some importance. Or otherwise, Rita was just teasing her with useless information, just to get her goat. She wouldn't put it past her.

"Alright, alright, sweetie. I guess I'll take into account that you just woke up, and I'll be the bigger person by letting your bad attitude slide." She paused for effect, as though expecting Layla to spout off in response to being chastised, but she was pleased to hear silence, save for breathing. "I dialed your number out of courtesy for you, to let you know about what's happened."

"So what happened? Who died?" Layla pressed.

Rita gasped audibly on the other end, genuinely alarmed. "How would you know if anyone died?"

"I don't. I'm just guessing," Layla raised an eyebrow, only slightly worried. She had kept her family out of much of her life, and that was the way she liked it. But she didn't wish them dead or anything. She didn't really wish anybody dead, except…

"Well, we don't know that they're _dead_, per se…"

"_Who_ don't you know is dead?" Unable to bear it anymore, Layla swiped Mort's cigarette from his fingers and inhaled deeply, not bothering to catch his reaction. Mmm…it certainly didn't taste like L&M. No, this taste was much more full-bodied and familiar. The brand of cigarettes she almost exclusively smoked. She glanced to Mort, perplexed as to why he would start smoking Pall Malls, but he just looked back at her, with the same serene look as before. Ordinarily, she would have expected him to sound off on what he overheard on the phone call, chattering with comments every now and then. He despised Rita almost as much as Layla did. But the entire time, he had pulled a Silent Bob. But the strange behavior could easily be attributed to the big lump on the back of his head.

It took a minute for Layla to realize that Rita had been silent herself for awhile now. "Rita? Hello?"

Finally, Rita responded, almost excitedly, "It's your ex-husband and his little girlfriend. They went missing yesterday."


	9. Death Makes A Phone Call

**A/N: **I'm sorry this chapter took as long as it did. There's a lot I wanted to pack into one chapter and I've been getting ready for my senior year. Hard to believe it'll be here in less than a month... cries

tryhonesty and PeaceLoveandPoetry, I really appreciated you guys taking the time to write such extensive critiques! And thanks very much for the suggestions!

* * *

**Chapter IX: Death Makes A Phone Call**

_"I know everything's gonna be okay if you just stay gone." _– Jimmy Wayne

For a moment, it seemed the world drifted away. Or Layla drifted away from the world. "Missing?" she mumbled, repeating her sister's words in a baffled stupor. Maybe she had heard wrong. This couldn't be right. Frank had called her just the other day. How could he have dropped off the face of the earth in that time-span?

"Yes, missing! Reggie told me!" Reggie, Rita's husband, was a conceited downtown detective who liked to think he was at the top of his game. It was for this that Rita and Reggie were a perfect match. Love at first boast. "He got this call from your ex-in-laws, Frank's parents, last night. Frank and his woman were supposed to go to their house for dinner, but _they never showed up_."

"I see…" It burned her to think that Frank's parents were so accepting of the harlot, extending their hospitality and welcoming her with open arms, but it was nothing Layla didn't expect. Twas no secret that they disapproved of their baby boy marrying 'that despicable redhead', as she once overheard herself being referred to as.

"Well?" Rita jabbered on, appalled that Layla didn't want to be more informed on the situation. "Don't you want to hear more? Or did I waste my time in calling?"

"No!" Layla jumped in. For once, it was a good thing that her sister was so keen on gossip. "I really would like to know more about this. It's…scintillating."

Layla didn't have to say it twice. "And then, get this, they had made a four o'clock appointment with a wedding planner yesterday afternoon, but they didn't show up for _that_ either. I couldn't believe it, that they were planning on getting married so soon after everything was finalized. But then, Frank was real adamant about getting a quickie divorce, wasn't he? Couldn't wait to get away from you."

A callous way of putting it, even if it was the truth. "Thanks for reminding me." This, Layla figured, was probably the reason why Mort had refused to sign his _own_ divorce papers. His refusal to provide a signature was the only thing that kept he and Amy from dropping their titles of husband and wife. It was Amy's intent to completely erase Mort from her life, starting with his last name.

"You did know they were getting married, right?" Rita harped on the subject, refusing to let it go.

Layla rubbed her neck, as a twinge of panic set upon her. This sudden disappearance was too bizarre. After her dream yesterday…no no, not this again. It was a dream and nothing more. They couldn't be interrelated. It wasn't possible. But when she closed her eyes, she could remember the man of her dreams, dripping with rainwater and fresh, sickeningly warm blood…the blood of betrayers.

_"The sonuvabitch. He done hurt yew too many tahmes, an' ah wasn't goh-na allow it anymore. Him an' that hussy o' his weren't goh-na get away with it."_

Still…

A coincidence was all it was.

Had to be.

Yet she felt safer denying Rita's inquiry. "No…I wasn't aware."

"PUH-lease!" Rita shouted, so loudly that Layla jumped, holding the phone out away from her to keep her ear from bleeding. It even shook Mort from whatever trance he was in; his coffee-colored eyes darted to the phone, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a deep snarl. Meanwhile, Rita barked on. "You can't be serious. I know he told you about it. Why wouldn't he want to gloat? I mean, that's what _I'd_ do."

Layla returned the phone to her ear, clearing her throat. She hoped to God her falsehoods sounded convincing. "He never told me. I had no idea."

"Oh…" Rita sounded at a loss for words at first, maybe just a tad afraid that she'd hurt her sister's feelings, but any form of sympathy was too much to hope for. Her giddiness picked up right where it left off. "Well, you had to find out sometime. Reggie thinks that they could have decided 'screw the wedding' and just eloped."

Layla brought her hand to her mouth before realizing that she no longer held the cigarette. Confused, she turned to see Mort puffing away, having snatched it from her when she wasn't paying attention. He was hopelessly out of it, his gaze now turned up to the ceiling. She just shook her head, deciding to leave him alone. Let him stay locked within his thoughts. "Why does he think that?" Layla asked, suspicious.

"Their car's gone, for one thing. And when they searched the house, there wasn't a single suitcase in that place. Ditto for toiletries. And some clothes were gone."

She narrowed her eyes, gazing down absent-mindedly at the self-inflicted scratches on her palm. This whole plot sounded very nearly familiar. But why? "Isn't this case moving a little fast? They've been gone twenty-four hours and already the police did a search of their house?"

Rita scoffed, "You knew Frank's parents better than I did, doll, but now we've gotten to know them too and believe me, I pity you for having to put up with them all those years. Reggie hasn't slept since yesterday morning. The Tristans won't give it a damn rest. They harassed Reggie with phone calls all night long until he and his buddies went over to check out the love nest for clues as to where they've gone. The Tristans said that since Reggie was formerly family, even though it wasn't by blood, even though the relations are about as distant as it gets, he 'owed it to them' to investigate right away. Or something like that."

'Love nest'…Layla couldn't help cringing in disgust. Frank and Natalie's 'love nest' had been _her_ home not so long ago, which she was all but dropkicked out of. "What were you saying about the possibility of them being dead?" That was the part that caught _her _attention anyway.

"Well…" Rita got real quiet just then, trying to prevent others around her from hearing her, like she was divulging a secret. "There was a message left on the answering machine, supposedly made by Frank, about driving to Arizona. Isn't that where Natalie's from?"

After all the conspiracy theories bouncing around in her head, it had come to this: the solution to the riddle was in the fucking answering machine. Layla took the opportunity to draw in a deep breath, relief spreading through her, "For God's sake…"

"It's not what you think, let me finish. So Reggie calls Mr. and Mrs. Tristan down to the station to listen to the tape, right? To identify if it was their son's voice. Now, the quality on answering machines isn't all that great, granted, but neither of them was convinced that it was Frank who left the message in the first place. They said that whoever _did_ leave the message had too thick of an accent. And they were sure that Frank would give them notice if he was just going to up and leave like that. So Reggie thinks some foul play may be involved. I swear, this happened maybe ten minutes ago. That was the breaking point for me. I _had_ to call you up and tell you…not to mention—"

"Accent? A Southern accent?" Layla repeated, feeling faint. Oh God…if only the dream _was_ real, it would be a perfect fit. This jigsaw puzzle would be complete.

"Yes, that's what I said," an impatient Rita harrumphed. "What's the matter with you? Are you drunk again? You sound like you are."

"I'm perfectly sober," Layla interrupted. _For once_, she thought to herself. She almost wished she were the one who had gotten whacked in the head. Anything to stop these inane thoughts and unanswered questions. "I'm…just in a state of shock, is all."

Rita chuckled, almost wickedly, "And I thought this would lift your spirits. That's what I get for performing a good deed for you, eh?"

"It wasn't a waste of time. I appreciate you calling." Layla tried to be polite, really tried, but she felt she almost came across as sounding rushed, like she wanted to get off the phone as soon as possible. Whatever. It was the truth. She just needed to relax. Cooking or drinking, she would take her pick. But definitely not sleep. Something told her she would run into _him_ again.

Obviously, Rita picked up on her hurriedness. "Don't tell me you're trying to get rid of me. Don't rush off just yet. There's something I have to ask you. It's _very_ important and potentially very serious."

"Yeah, what?"

"Reggie wanted me to pose this question to you, on behalf of Frank's parents," Rita began, actually sounding a bit unsure. "Um…how do I word this? If you…" Her voice trailed off as she thought it through. With a heavy drama queen sigh, she tried again. "If you, or somebody you knew, had something to do with Frank's disappearance, you would tell me, right?"

Layla's eyes widened. She should've known this would come up, her being a suspect. "Excuse me?"

"Well…when Reggie asked Frank's parents if they knew of anybody who would harm their son and future daughter-in-law…your name came up right away."

Layla swallowed hard, for a second almost forgetting how to breathe. "They _would_ think that, wouldn't they?" she muttered, choking on spite and fury.

"Yes, but—"

"But do _you_ think I did it? Does Reggie?"

Another over-dramatized sigh. "I don't know, Layla. It's hard to say. I just…don't know what it's like to be in your situation."

"Oh yes, of course you wouldn't. Because Reggie would never abandon you. Not your perfect, loving husband."

"No. He wouldn't," Rita agreed, with a little too much pride in the fact. How heartless could you be?

Layla rested her chin in one hand, an idea formulating in her head. It was time for a little reverse psychology. Make her see things from her perspective. "But what if he did? What if one day, he left you and the kids behind and shacked up with a little slut half his age. What then?"

"But he _wouldn't_," Rita groaned, exasperated that this would even be an issue.

"It's a figurative scenario. Just play along."

She could practically _hear_ Rita rolling her eyes. "I don't have time for this. I just want you to answer the question. This is serious business, you know. We could be dealing with a double homicide here."

"This _is_ your answer to the question. What would _you_, Rita Bateman, do if your husband threw away all those promises he made you the day you were married and gave his heart to somebody else?" Not waiting for an answer, Layla continued, lowering her voice. "Wouldn't you fantasize about killing him? Maybe him and his new flame both?"

Rita said nothing, but her breathing could still be heard, fast and enthralled, as though she expected her sister to admit her guilt right then and there.

Layla smiled sadly, "You would, wouldn't you? But the real question is, _could_ you do it? Would you capable of it?"

More silence. Layla had her in her grasp, right where she wanted her.

"To commit murder, first you would have to be able to get out of bed in the morning. As for myself, this can be a very trying task and most days, I haven't the strength nor the inclination. Then, you would have to be able to set foot out the front door. For me, this isn't going to happen anytime soon. I haven't seen the light of day in months, except when it shines through the windows. That's two strikes against me right there. That isn't even including me driving all the way down to good ol' Dallas and chopping them into itsy-bitsy pieces."

With another laugh, this time a little more forced, Rita restarted the two-person conversation. "Nice try…but you must be joking. Laying in bed all day? Now you're a lot of things, doll, but I admit, lazy isn't one of them. It hardly sounds like you. And why haven't you mentioned any of this before?"

Layla shook her head, rising to her feet and beginning to pace the floor, not even bothering to sidestep the papers. She didn't really like opening up to her sister like this, laying bare all her weaknesses, but oh, she was going to do it. These things needed to be said for her to be convinced of her innocence. "You know, while it's plausible that these sordid predicaments will never happen to you, that you'll never have to go through suffering of this magnitude, would it kill you to empathize? Couldn't you even imagine what it would be like to lose the most important person in your life? You don't only lose the person; you lose a part of yourself. It just dies away and you have to find something else to live for." Layla found herself sniffling a little, in spite of herself. "I haven't felt like myself in a long time."

So, now she'd explained everything. A little part of her expected Rita to recant the suspicions. She wouldn't receive any pity, that wasn't what Layla wanted anyway, but hopefully, she would gain a little respect as a fellow human being, a member of Rita's own gene pool, who was in a lot of pain. But respect was the last thing that was to come from the other side of the phone line. "Yes…something to live for. Like taking out the persons who wreaked havoc on your life, perhaps?" Rita murmured, mulling it over. Suddenly, she sounded as much an investigator as Reggie, ploughing into her version of Layla's psyche. "Once he and Natalie are gone, it'd be like a fresh start for you, wouldn't it? You'll be free to live your life and you won't have to think of them so very happy together, drowning in their happiness, having children, children you and Frank were supposed to have. The Layla _I _know wouldn't kill anybody, but you said it yourself, you're not who you used to be."

Horror-stricken, Layla's mouth was practically scraping the floor. Paranoia struck like lightning, walls closing in all around her. That bitch was trying to turn it all around, put words in her mouth. It was her plot to put all the blame on Layla, whether there was hard evidence or not. Maybe so her dickhead husband could get a promotion, for solving a case so quickly and efficiently. The 'psycho ex-wife' was the perfect candidate for the supposed deaths. This whole time, Rita had been insisting on how serious this was. It certainly was serious _now_. She had no clue what to say in her defense, and anything she _did_ say would probably wind up being used against her. Shit…what if this conversation was being taped right now? She could see Rita on the other end of the line, so very pleased with herself, a predator's grin on her hideously botoxed face, awaiting Layla's next stupid move…

Before she knew what was happening, the phone was roughly yanked from her grasp. She jerked to her side to see Mort standing next to her, pressing the receiver to his lips. Not holding back, he screeched into the phone, his explosive voice like a mushroom cloud.

**"GO TO HELL!"**

And with that, Rita's reign was silenced as swiftly as by a guillotine blade, Mort slamming the phone back onto its receiver. Layla nearly gave herself whiplash, staring between the phone and Mort. She couldn't have said it better herself, yet she couldn't be entirely grateful…

Looking more like a madman than ever before, Mort seemed to feel the need to explain, even if Layla had remained silent thus far. "I just felt like…saying that." Standing there a moment, hunched over slightly and panting like he'd just run a mile, he shambled back to the couch. The shout seemed to have taken a tremendous amount of energy, something he was most lacking in these days.

Layla clasped her hands, kneading them together nervously. This could not have made the situation any more precarious. Why did he have to go and do that? "Did you even…hear any of that conversation?"

Mort shook his head sullenly as he stretched out on the couch, gingerly resting the back of his head on a pillow. "I just felt like saying that," he reiterated. Expertly tossing his spent cigarette into the ashtray, he grabbed at a scrap of paper hanging on the couch's arm, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scanned over it.

He obviously wasn't well, that was all it came down to. His behavior, just this morning, was nothing short of frightening. Layla knew she should've called a doctor and she wanted to call one now, but she couldn't stand the thought of Mort screaming at _her_ like that. He seemed to have calmed down considerably, less than a minute after the incident, but that was because he was swiftly able to get rid of Rita. Maybe it was best not to piss him off. She could call a doctor later, maybe, but right now…she would just stay in his good graces. Wouldn't even mention anything _about_ last night. And besides, there were larger blades looming over her now.

It was good that Mort didn't know what was going on, regarding her ex-husband, and it was even better that Mort wasn't interested. No way did she want to discuss this, nor think of what the implications of this whole thing could mean. What if Reggie, receiving information from his wife that not only Layla, but Mort as well, were acting very suspiciously on the phone, decided to place in a call to the Tashmore Police and have one or both of them arrested? And what evidence would they end up finding at the 'love nest' in the next few days? What if Frank and Natalie really had been murdered, by way of coincidence?

Fumbling for some sense of normality, she asked Mort the magic question. "Breakfast?"

Mort looked up from his paper, blinking widely at her. "No. But thanks."

Damn. She was hoping he would comply. Since he had been all but starving himself lately, some food would do him good. "Please eat?" she asked gently, taking baby steps towards the couch. "It would make me feel so much better. It would be so nice to have a man around to eat my cooking. I'd be so much...I'd feel so much better." Pitiful, she knew. There was no way he would say yes.

He still stared at the paper, but it seemed as though his expression had begun to soften. After a pregnant silence, he surprisingly responded: "Eggs…I'll have eggs."

Layla nodded and made a feeble attempt at a smile, relieved that he'd at least made a choice. "You still like them sunny side-up, right?"

"Mmm."

"Alrighty. I'll get right to it." On her way into the kitchen, Layla paused to glance at the scrap Mort was so interested in, just a glance. It was a page from his 1995 novel, 'Alice's Elegy'. If her memory served her right, it was this offbeat tale about a middle-aged woman who saw her dead relatives ambling around on her porch, and heard their voices whenever she picked up the phone. It had sold well, but overall, the story was a little too creepy for most readers. Rita hadn't liked it, Layla remembered. She had read about half of it before hurling it in the trashcan, claiming it seemed more like something "from the pen of Satan". It was during that particular sisterly conversation, in person rather than over the phone, that Rita had went on to bitch that she would have nothing to read on her upcoming flight. Pity. But in the end, it didn't matter whether she had anything to read because …

"Stop it…" Layla said out loud, pressing her fingers to her temples and rubbing at the sensitive skin. She wouldn't allow these memories to creep into her mind. She had blocked them out for a reason. Some things are better off forgotten. Bothersome tremors had started shooting through her nerves, to her fingertips. She had to will them to stop, or she'd never be able to cook the eggs properly. It would be one of the first meals she would be serving Mort, and it couldn't be any less than perfect. She just had to keep her mind free of everyone and everything, just block it all out for the moment…but her mind wouldn't leave well enough alone.

(_"Wut wuld ah do without yew?"_)

(Remember when Frank used to say that to you? And he was so nervous, he ended up dropping the ring into the chicken cacciatore. You put it on anyway, and the diamond was covered with tomato sauce and basil, and it smelled like garlic for ages afterward, but you didn't care.)

(I wonder if that's how he proposed to Natalie?)

(NatalieNatalieNatalieNatalieNatalieNatalieNatalie)

(_If'n ah was the one doin' the proposin', ah wouldn't have been so cayreless with th' ring_)

(I wonder what their wedding will be like.)

(There ain't gonna be no wedding now. Better start learning to use past tense when referring to them.)

(_Ah don't have much, but ah would spend what ah could fer the purtiest ring out thayre._)

(What happened to the car? And the suitcases and clothes?)

(What do you care?)

(Isn't this all playing out nicely? Just to your advantage?)

(I could have the cops after me! How is that advantageous?!)

(Rita was bluffing.)

(Don't believe her.)

(How dare she call you up after everything that's happened?)

(It's better that you answered her. It would look even worse if you didn't. And then the whole family would be involved.)

(She'd send them after you.)

(_Ah'd tell yew how much yew mean to me and slip it on yore finger. An' ah'd count mahself the luckiest man in the whole damn world if yew were to accept._)

(But what about—?)

(Forget it. It's nothing you should be concerned with.)

(You're innocent, remember?)

(Your hands are totally fucking clean.)

(You know that, I know that, and he knows that.)

(Of course. Mort would vouch for me. I've been here the whole time.)

(I wasn't talking about Mort.)

(_Have yew forgotten about me so soon?_)

(Who did it, then? Who got to Frank and Natalie?)

(Crazed hitchhiker.)

(The in-laws did it.)

(Jack the Ripper. He killed whores, didn't he?)

(Somebody help me. Somebody get me out of this.)

(I can't breathe. Make it stop.)

(_It's alraght. Ah'm here._)

(No…)

(Stop it.)

(There's nothing you can do for me.)

(_Don't yew trust me anymore? Pease don't send me away, darlin'._)

…

Ah, 'Alice's Elegy'. One of his personal favorites to write. Mort couldn't quite remember where he'd gotten the inspiration for it. The words were authored by him, but the plotline wasn't. Where _did_ it come from? It was probably from some dream...or maybe not...Oh well. It didn't bother him too much that he couldn't remember. Many some other time he would think on it and come up with the answer.

He slowly read over the print on the page, savoring each word scribed by his own hand and printed by Méridional Publications. Then, he began folding the page in half, then again, then again. When it was about the size of a coat button, he began restoring it to its proper size, the pages deeply marked with creases. By now, he had expected the aroma of one of Layla's creations, the sizzling sounds of breakfast cooking, to reach his senses, but there was nothing to be smelled or heard, except for the methological, almost violent cracking of eggs. Just what the hell was she doing in there?

He was about to rise from the couch to investigate, when he glanced back to the paper he had just unfolded. Something about what was written there made him stop short. The print had somehow been altered, as if by magic. He turned on his side, curling into a fetal position as he read over it, confused. "This is very good," he choked out, envious. Why hadn't he written it? "This is _perfect_." But soon enough, the jealousy faded and he couldn't help but smile at the words. They gave him hope, somehow, letting him know that what he wanted was meant to be and that everything was bound to fall flawlessly into place. No worries.

_He had already swung his arm to backhand her when the bitch thrust her hands over her face, defending herself, and at the last second, he changed his trajectory, instead whacking her hard upside the head. The heel of his palm slammed against her thumbnail and because of the angle at which it hit, half of the entire nail was roughly bent back from its bed. It hung on only by the base, as well as by a few strings of bloody gristle. The filthy slut couldn't yet see the damage Mort had done, but by the way she wailed, he knew she could feel it and was aware of what had just happened. He tilted his head to the side, staring down at his former love as she screamed and screamed, the only action she was now capable of. It was clear she could no longer defend herself against him._

_But that was just the way it should be._

_With a macabre grin, he took hold of her wrist, grabbing onto the thumbnail he had peeled back and, giving a hard tug, ripped it clean off, as easily as pulling the top off a soda can. The crunch it made as it was torn from her flesh made him think of the satisfying sound of a cockroach crushed beneath the heel of one's shoe, the exoskeleton cracking open and putrid yellowish insides spurting out from beneath. It satisfied him even more to think that he would get to hear that sound again, nine more times._

_He himself didn't think he was being cruel. It was a precaution, after all. To make sure she would never run those nails down any man's back ever again._


End file.
